The Judge's Portrait
by WollstonecraftHomeGirl
Summary: Modern A/U. Edith is an artist and Anthony is a Judge. Will move into M at some point with an appropriate warning at the top of each Chapter.
1. Chapter 1

Drizzle. London had been nothing but drizzle since she'd arrived. And now, just as she emerged from Chancery Lane tube, it started again. She lifted her collar to shield her neck and arched her shoulders. Pulling her cheek between her teeth she searched for Matthew's face but he was nowhere to be seen. Several impatient City workers pushed past her and with a sigh she huddled under the awnings of a nearby shoe shop.

Edith Crawley was annoyed - cold, damp and waiting. Her foot was shaking, her frustration pooled there and was trying to break its way out. There was something particularly bleak about weekday lunchtimes in the capital, especially in early March. Everything was grey. Yorkshire never seemed grey, neither did Cambridge, but London had been this way since she'd arrived.

She looked at her wrist. The delicate, small hands of the art deco watch told her it was fifteen minutes past their agreed meeting time. She wiped the damp from the battered glass with her thumb. It had been her great grandmother's. After that it was her grandmother's and then it skipped a generation to Sybil. A sharp pang darted through her chest cavity. She wondered why she wore it; it was a constant reminder of the loss. Punitive, and for what?

Over the car engines and cab horns she heard her name, "Edith! Ede!"

Matthew was half jogging up the street carrying an enormous black umbrella. The crowds parted for him, not that they had much choice. He was breathing heavily and he beamed a warm, genuine smile, "sorry I'm late old girl."

"Very late."

With mock solemnity he parroted the words back to her, "_very late_."

Edith rolled her eyes and noticed his collar. He was still wearing his bands, two ridiculous strips of superfluous white fabric hanging from a starched collar over the lapels of his black suit. Her eyes narrowed, "Matthew, are you mid-trial?"

His hand went to his neck and he smiled sheepishly, "well-" he drew the word out.

She couldn't believe it, couldn't believe him and she begun to walk, stomp really, up High Holborn, "you are _infuriating_. I came all the way up from bloody Brixton to see you." She gestured erratically towards him, "You bloody asked me to."

Matthew jogged a few steps and caught up with her, looping his arm through hers and levering the umbrella over their heads, "I know, I know but you know how it is, I'm a criminal barrister, juicy brief comes in - I can't turn it down just because I'm having lunch with my baby sis." He squeezed her elbow and cheerily sung the words, "there's still time for a burrito."

Burritos were her weakness, as well he knew, she looked resolutely ahead but turned them towards _Chilangos_, "you could've text me. And I'm _not_ your sister, you really need to stop calling me that, s'weird."

"Why? You basically are."

They'd grown up together. Edith, Mary and Sybil in the decaying Abbey and Matthew and his family in one of the many outhouses; converted into beautiful family homes and sold off to try and shore up the finances of a once great aristocratic land holding. Coincidentally his family shared the same surname and a fast friendship between their parents had ensued. The forced bonding of their respective children was the inevitable result. Matthew was rather like the older brother Edith never had, he chased her round the garden with snails, helped her muddle through secondary school, encouraged her to apply to Cambridge and visited her when she went up. He was kind and supportive when the rest of her family, with the exception of Sybil, seemed nonplussed at her very existence.

Nonetheless his term of endearment no longer held the same appeal. He pulled down his umbrella and they walked into the bustling burrito bar, "it's weird, Matthew –" she turned pointedly to look at him as they joined the long queue to the counter, "because you are sleeping with my actual sister."

He covered his mouth as though scandalised, "I do not know to what you are referring Ms Crawley."

Edith rolled her eyes again. She didn't know for certain, of course, Mary didn't talk to her about anything, particularly not about Matthew, but she'd seen them together at Christmas and she was not a fool. He didn't want to talk about it and Edith decided not to push. She couldn't see why Matthew, who was kind and warm and funny would want to be with her sister, who was none of those things. She found that she didn't care enough what either of them did to interrogate him on the issue, "Fine. Whatever. Just _stop_ calling me sis."

Large burritos in warm silver wrappers were ordered and they huddled around a small table shared by four other patrons. Matthew checked his watch.

"What time do you have to be back?"

He mumbled through a mouthful of rice and chicken, "Jury coming back just after 2." He wiped his mouth, "so moving quickly on to why I wanted to buy you a meal -"

Scowling she arched an eyebrow, "this doesn't count as buying me a meal; we're not sitting down and my food is wrapped in tin foil."

He waved his arm dismissively, "I got you a job."

"What?"

"Well, an interview for one, sort of."

"Matthew, I have a job."

"Edith. You waitress. You want to be an artist, right?"

He asked the question as though he was still surprised, still needed to check she was sane. He'd said the word quietly and quizzically – _artist?_ - pregnant with otherness and confusion. Matthew, rather like the rest of her family, couldn't quite believe that she wanted to paint, for a living. He wasn't cruel about it like everyone else, but baffled nonetheless. She could be a banker or a management consultant or a lawyer, like everyone else with a degree from Cambridge, like her sisters, her father, her mother, like Matthew. Her parents fully expected she'd realise this, her Father labelled her painting a phase, "_like when you took to wearing black and dyed the ends of your hair blue_."

Somewhat sceptically, she responded, "yes."

"Well, you know I'm a committee member of the John's Law Society?" He didn't wait for an answer, "we've been told that one of our alums will be appointed to the High Court."

Furrowing her brow with confusion Edith balled up her empty wrapper, "ok."

"It's been eight years since our last one, scandalous really." She nodded in agreement without having any real idea what he was talking about, "every High Court Judge from John's gets a portrait for the library." He put his rubbish in the overflowing bin and they walked outside, "and I put your name forward to – you know – paint it."

Edith laughed, "Matthew!" He looped his arm through hers, forcing her to walk back to Court with him and rendering her unable to end the ridiculous conversation, "I am not an artist."

He tilted his head, "you _just_ _said_ you were."

"That's – that's" she huffed in annoyance, "I'm trying to be, but I don't paint portraits. I've never painted one. I don't even think I can –"

"Si-Ede, all your doing is throwing your hat into the ring. You send some work in and then the Judge picks whoever he –or she – likes." He stopped them on the corner by the Old Bailey, "can't hurt to try, can it?"

Edith pulled away from his arm and traced a semi-circle on the blackened pavement with her shoe. The whole idea made her feel slightly queasy. Painting someone she didn't know - a Judge, no less – and then that painting being forever hung on a wall at a Cambridge college, examined and derided for eternity. There was also the pretty significant problem that ever since Sybil died she hadn't actually been able to paint. Her factory space in Brixton, rented for the sole purpose of facilitating a life as a professional artist, was full of blank, white canvasses. Perhaps the time had come for confession, "Matthew, it's just –"

"They pay the chosen artist £25,000." The shock of such a sum stopped Edith's worrying mind for a moment and she felt her mouth drop open. Matthew laughed at her, "Silly money, right? Look –" he fished in the pocket of his trench coat and handed her a small business card, "get a selection of stuff together and send it there. The Judge probably won't even pick you – but you've got to be in it to win it Ede."

She looked down at the sharp text on the cardboard,

"_Mrs E. Hughes_

_ Judge's Clerk_

_ Snaresbrook Crown Court_."

"You want my umbrella? Ede?"

Her attention snapped back up to Matthew and he waved it in her direction, "oh, I-no, thank you. It's not raining that hard."

He leant in and kissed her on the cheek. Lines worried his forehead and the lightness left his voice. He was very serious when he spoke again – his court voice as Mary dubbed it - "Edith, are you alright?"

She looked at him and briefly considered telling the truth. No. She was not. She'd come to London to be an artist, to forge a creative existence but she couldn't paint. She waitressed, came home, read, slept and did the same thing the next day and the next. She worried she'd drift like this forever, half a person. Pointless. She had thought it was grief but now she suspected it was her lot in life to feel this way.

She said none of it, instead she plastered on her best smile, "I'm _fine_." She gestured towards the court doors, "go on – Jury's waiting."

With a flash of brilliant white teeth Matthew darted through the doors, clapping the security guard on the back as he went. Edith ran her finger along the sharp edges of the small piece of cardboard and slipped it into the front pocket of her handbag.

The rain persisted the whole way home. Edith's hair matted together in thick strands and dripped onto her shoulders. She was shivering as she stepped onto the factory floor and the wave of heat from the large presses was a relief. From above she heard a wolf whistle over the din of electricity and metal on metal. Thomas was sitting astride the nearest machine. He was in tight jeans and an even tighter white tank top with ink stains covering the plain cotton. He raised his chin, said something and laughed but Edith couldn't hear him over the noise. She shrugged and pointed at her ears. He held a finger aloft and bent to the control panel. The machine shuddered and chugged into silence and Thomas climbed down.

He whistled at her again, "looking good Ede!"

"Is the wet look not '_in'_?" She air-quoted the last word with an eye roll. She quickly dropped her hands to her side when it occurred to her that it was something her mother might do – or, worse, her grandmother.

"Not done like this, no. You're a tragic mess." He rapped her on the shoulder and shook his head.

Edith shrugged out of her wet coat and frowned, "Have I mentioned how much I enjoy returning home to a barrage of insults?"

"Shush, it's how I show my love." He grabbed her elbow and planted a wet kiss on her cheek, "better?"

"Please don't, you're all –" she waved her hand in front of his face, "grubby."

"Some girls like that."

"What would you know about what girls' like?"

"Touché." Thomas moved round to the front of the machine and knelt down to work the front panel open, "how was lunch?"

"Brief."

He spoke through grunts as he worked the paper tray out from underneath, "That good, eh? How was Matthew?"

The tray sprung free from its hold and Edith peered inside. Rows of bright pink roses were print into crisp, thick paper, "same as ever."

"Admitted to sleeping with Mary yet?"

"Nope, still denying it."

Thomas pulled out the paper and set it on the large wooden table in the middle of the factory floor. With a cheeky grin he waggled his eyebrows, "maybe they haven't done the dirty deed."

"I'm sure they have." She'd seen them together over Christmas; Thomas hadn't seen them since Matthew's birthday party in October. There was something going on between them then - there had always been something going on between them - but it was markedly different by the holiday. Sybil died in November, of course, it affected them all.

"This is Mary. She's a frigid bitch."

Punching him on the arm Edith choked back a laugh, "that's my sister you're talking about!"

"Such a _fine_ specimen of a man is _wasted_ on her." Thomas looked to the ceiling as if praying to God that Matthew might see the error of his ways.

Laughing, Edith pointed at the first row of sparkling pink roses, "they're cracking you know."

"Shit, where?" Thomas snapped back to business and examined the print, "she's insisting on this Barbie pink, it's impossible to get a mixture which sets smooth."

Moving round the table they both examined the pattern, "some of the ones down here are ok." Lightly Edith touched the paper, "I'm putting in for a painting job."

"To paint what?"

"Some Judge."

His eyebrows furrowed towards his nose, "A person? Can you paint people?"

"Maybe. I don't know." The uncertainty was apparent in her voice, but she'd decided on the way home to send in her portfolio. It wasn't because of the money, although it was more money than she could imagine. She didn't think she could paint someone's picture. She suspected she wouldn't ever paint again but she had to do something. A rejection was inevitable, but better that than not trying at all. "I won't be chosen anyway, so it's not a problem."

Thomas's eyes narrowed, "such an optimist." He shook his head and huffed, "they're all cracking now. I'll have to try another batch. Want to help mix?"

Thomas was an artist. He created beautiful pictures with layers of brightly coloured metal thinly painted onto paper. Foil blocking, as it was called, was an expensive and difficult business. The colour pigments did not get on well with the metal and getting the image to set precisely and evenly was a lesson in trial and error. To fund his art he'd set up a printing company to make glitzy invitations using the technique - _Barrow's Blocking_. The weddings of Belgravia _nouveau riche_ and the dinner parties of Mayfair old money now paid for his own foil exploits.

Seeing the molten metal mix with the bright colour pigments was one of Edith's favourite activities and to be allowed to gently stir the air bubbles from the mixture was a particular treat. There was something calming about pulling the wooden stirrer through the thick sluice and watching the heavy grey dance with red or purple or yellow or whatever colours were required. It was also the most delicate part of the process; air bubbles were fatal. Thomas must feel very sorry for her indeed.

"No, no, it's too important, besides I have to sort out a portfolio for this thing and get ready for work. Thanks though." She reached out and squeezed his elbow, offered a meagre smile and headed towards the metal stairs in the corner.

"Ede?" She turned back as Thomas begun to ball up the failed attempt, "you feeling ok?"

The sigh that escaped her lips couldn't be stopped. She thought she was faking contentment quite successfully, perhaps not. She couldn't explain herself to Thomas any more than she could to Matthew.

"Just tired. Good luck with the next batch." Before he could quiz her any further she took the metal steps two at a time and walked hurriedly across the walkway that stretched over the factory floor. Thomas's eyes followed her.

At the other end she took the next staircase more slowly. It came out on a small walled landing with a heavy wooden door at one end. Edith's keys jangled in the lock and she shook the handle to coax her way into her flat.

Calling it a flat wasn't exactly accurate. It was the second floor of the factory. A huge open space with enormous picture windows split into smaller panes by uniform white metal bars. The walls were grey and weathered, large oak panels covered the floor. At one end there was a kitchen, made up of a few units and an oven. She came home one day in January to find Thomas had painted them a vivid shade of lilac. They looked absurd but they made the whole room seem warmer. A small table and two mismatched, rickety chairs sat in front of the kitchen. This dining area, of sorts, gave way to Edith's bed and wardrobe.

In the middle of the room was a huge painting table, splatted with various swatches of colour from the previous occupant's enthusiastic endeavours. Edith's brushes were set neatly atop it, beside numerous tubes of expensive paint and her watercolours. All were untouched. Easels were scattered across the floor with canvasses of different sizes set into their bindings, all blank. Behind the painting table, covering some of the windows was what Thomas had dubbed her 'Pollock canvass' – an enormous linen board on which she could paint a picture as large and as unique as her surroundings. On which she could truly realise the scope and brilliance of her creativity. It too, was blank.

Running along the far wall was an overflowing bookcase. The first section was all history, left over from her degree and now collecting dust, Edith had trouble believing she once held much of that knowledge in her head. The rest was fiction. Wonderful, glorious fiction. An escape into any world she chose at the tip of her fingertips.

Behind the door, in the corner, was the one sop to privacy. A toilet and sink had been assigned their own room. The bath, however, was large and copper and sat beside the entrance. Edith ate, slept and washed all in the same room.

It was terribly clichéd. Bohemian in the worst way. But she loved it. She had a sense that if she was ever able to make something of herself it would happen here, with the chugging printing presses below, and a view over South London's rooftops.

Kneeling on the floor beside her bed Edith drew out a selection of paintings from underneath. Without any real thought she shuffled a number of them together and put them into a large artist's file. She snatched her laptop from the bookshelf and plugged in the small picture printer. Opening her files she found a photograph of the only portrait she'd ever painted. She slipped a copy of it into the file. Edith suspected she should do a covering letter, detailing all the reasons she was perfect for this project and promising a remarkable painting suited to John's now and into the future. Neatly she scribed her address and telephone number.

"_Dear Mrs Hughes,_

_For the Judge's consideration, please find pictures enclosed._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Ms Edith Crawley_"

The paintings would have to do the talking.


	2. Chapter 2

Anthony laughed at how he must look. Mrs Hughes offered to have the portfolios put in the DX, but he'd refused, as if public funds couldn't stretch to the cost of the legal postal service. Now he was staggering up the second of two flights of narrow Victorian stairs with nine large folders. The corner of the top one was poking into his chin, he held two precariously between his elbow and his waist and the remaining ones balanced on his hands jutting out at different angles. Finally the front door was in sight. But the keys were in his back pocket. He cursed, "Gods sake!" The files tumbled onto the tiled floor. Shaking his feet free from underneath them he stepped over the carnage. He rattled the stiff door to dislodge it from the frame and stepped into his flat; he left the portfolios where they lay. He went to place his keys on a hall table which wasn't there, remembered and hung them on the picture hook he'd hammered into the wall for the purpose. He went into the small galley kitchen, grabbed a large plain tumbler from the draining board and headed into the dining room.

The table at its centre had been salvaged from the refurbishment of the Judges' dining room at Snaresbrook. The beautiful, historic Court had not escaped the scourge of a modernising Government. They could not touch the building itself but they set about making the interior 'fit for purpose'. He'd protested that the tables were exactly that but they'd been cast out in favour of imitation wood which was easily cleaned. Character and spirit and tradition mattered not. It was an accident of circumstance that Anthony needed furniture so he was able save one. It was long and wide, solid oak and dark with varnish. Scrolls of justice were carved into the legs and the roses of the Crown adorned the corners.

It only just fit in the room. At either end it was necessary to turn and shuffle to get round it, even if there wasn't someone sitting there. If Anthony ever held a dinner party the guests on the other side would be trapped. But the dining table was not really for dining. It was his place of business, covered in box files and red books. He set down the glass and pushed the files down the table, he piled several atop one another, making a space by his seat. He took the bottle of whiskey from the mantle and poured a generous measure.

Beside the bottle were two perfectly folded letters announcing the next stage of his life. The first was the one Mrs Hughes had dubbed the 'wink and nod' letter. It informed him, reading between its subtle lines, that he would be appointed as a High Court Judge in the autumn. Discretion was vital because nothing was decided, although plainly it was, save for the three lines containing a coded warning at the very end of the letter. They discussed the past and the future. Pulling away the veneer of language their meaning was obvious - mistresses were to be discharged, or married, rent boys paid up in full for their services and their discretion, business interests should be set right, resignations should be tendered at company board meetings. In other words: affairs should be set in order. There was still time for the position to go to someone else. It didn't matter anyway, Anthony had no affairs. He had Maud, but he suspected that question would have resolved itself by September, that was usually enough time for her.

The second letter was from Leonard Griffin at John's. He and Anthony had been young together. Anthony an upstart undergraduate and Leonard a newly minted research fellow attempting to teach him the maxims of equity. Now Anthony was to be a High Court Judge and Leonard Griffin was the Regius Professor of Law. The wink and nod letter urged discretion but the tightly spun network of the upper echelons of the British legal system made sure that the people who needed to know were aware of the news. Professor Griffin congratulated Anthony and reminded him of his obligation as an alumnus of John's to submit to a portrait for the library. Anthony had spent three years with his head in a book as the beady-eyed Judges stared down at him watching him read their unfathomable judgments. Now he was to be one of them. He had always known it would be so; the thought made him a little sad.

The files were exactly where he left them. Mrs Patmore was peering into his hall with a worried frown. She relaxed on seeing him, "oh, thank heavens, I thought someone had broken in." Her nest of ginger hair was forced under the rim of a small hat and she was wearing a long grey dress with a black trench coat, which was too small. They were two halves of twenty-first century west London. Anthony's flat had been purchased for high six figures with large professional incomes. Mrs Patmore was a dinner lady at the local primary school and inherited her flat from her Mother who enjoyed an old fashioned fixed tenancy, it passed from generation to generation, the rent was only £350 a month. Anthony quite liked the fact that in his little part of London, a Judge and a dinner lady could live side by side. Not to mention the fact that she bought him pies and stews and all manner of baked goods at least three times a week. They came, of course, with a hearty dose of mothering and berating – he wasn't "taking care of himself". She was right, although he'd never admit it, and he was grateful.

"Good evening Mrs Patmore. Sorry about this, I couldn't carry them."

"They're making the stairwell look untidy."

Anthony stooped inelegantly towards the floor and spoke through a groan, "I know – I know, I'm getting them."

"I swept that floor this morning."

"Yes-yes, they won't have dirtied it, they're only art folders."

He straightened up with the first couple arranged in a manageable state. Mrs Padmore's eyes narrowed, "art." she murmured the word, as if suspicious of something so frivolous being, literally, on her doorstep, "well, just see it's tidied." She waved a hand vaguely in his direction and set off down the stairs. Anthony rolled his eyes behind her back.

It struck him as he sipped the liquor that this was the oddest task he'd ever undertaken. His written judgments would be unread or overruled or upheld in the loftier language of a higher court. The portrait, on the other hand, would outlast him, the law and the cases with which he became involved. Seen by generations of students and lecturers. He was not a vain man, but he wanted, he _needed_, to choose well. He knew nothing about art and even less about portraiture and he felt conspicuously unprepared. He was _always_ prepared but not now, he couldn't tell a good portrait from a bad one. Clasping his hands together he stretched his fingers. He slugged back the last of the whiskey and begun.

Two whiskeys later he was on portfolio number six. More faces stared up at him, some smiling, some frowning, others looked – wistful? Thoughtful? Intelligent? Brooding? He recognised some of them. A couple of famous actors, some mediocre politicians and authors. That was probably supposed to impress him. None did. They were stale and predictable. Good likenesses, but surely the portrait had to be more than that, otherwise he could just blow up his official judicial picture and have done with it.

He looked at the first pictures in numbers seven and eight, only to be confronted with yet more staid posing. With a huff he set them aside.

He opened the final file. The only one which wasn't black leather. It was reinforced, thick, red cardboard. He pulled out the contents and was faced with a blaze of colours and not a face in sight. It was an extraordinary depiction of the Eiffel Tower in bright blue, pointing proudly into a sky of oranges, reds and yellows, a luminous sun at the centre. The metal struts at the base of the tower weaved their way to the ground, the rigidity of the steel warped by the heat from the concrete beneath. The trees were full and green, bristling in a gentle wind. Anthony was in Paris.

His pulse quickened as he looked through the rest. The silhouette of a farmhouse surrounded by a smattering of trees amongst a cluster of hills; through the cloud-strewn sky dapples of light shone down. A forest of silver birch trees in shades of grey. Tower bridge at twilight, somehow humming with the lights and life of London. The beauty and the precision, shaped in dramatic shades of bright and dull colours; life created by the stroke of the brush.

The final one was a photograph of a picture. A large, black dog standing proudly against a backdrop of rolling fields surrounded by a gilt frame, hanging on a dark green wall. Anthony laughed at its incongruity. There were no bright colours or tricks of light and heat. Just a good likeness, he assumed, of a beloved pet. He'd already decided on seeing the first picture that he wanted this artist but the dog confirmed it. There was a range of skill on display; painting him shouldn't present too much of a challenge.

He fished around in the portfolio for the references, covering letter and CV. A single sheet of plain white paper was all that remained. Slanted black writing curled across the page, the fountain pen leaving infinitesimal dots of black ink in its wake. The paintings were submitted for his consideration by one Ms Edith Crawley. Brevity. A Judge appreciated brevity.

He gathered all the other files together and put them in a pile by the front door. Thank goodness he didn't have to write the letters of rejection and find ways of praising their work whilst letting them down gently. The truth was that they'd all been bested by someone superior. Someone interesting.

Returning to the dining room he eyed the tower of lever arches. As ever, there was remaining trial preparation to be done.

He picked up Ms Crawley's paintings and gently moved to put them away. Hesitating he returned just the black dog to the portfolio, he took the others and leant them against the wall above the fireplace. When he tore his eyes away from witness statements and spreadsheets and interview transcripts they were a welcome respite. It had passed him by for most of his life, but Anthony realised with a smile that he finally understood the point of art.

The peace and quiet of his courtroom before all the barristers and defendants arrived never ceased to amaze Anthony. It was usually such a fraught place imbued with arguments and cross words but at 8.30 in the morning, as the cool light of a winter morning streamed in it was difficult to believe it was capable of producing so much as a raised voice. He sat with his feet up on the bench flicking through his morning list. They'd gone easy on him because of the trial starting the following week, just two bail applications and a plea and case management hearing. Things would be very, very different at the Royal Courts of Justice. Mrs Hughes breezed in from the Judge's entrance. She sighed – loudly - and clipped his shins with her file. "Feet!" she chastised in her brusque Scottish tones. He dropped them to the floor and reminded himself that some things would be exactly the same.

"I can leave you here, you know? I can ask the RCJ for a new Court Clerk."

She busied herself tidying her desk and turned on her computer, "You do realise, Your Honour, that you make that threat at least three times a day? It lost its potency very quickly. Besides –" she turned around and handed him the bundle of case law he'd spent forty minutes searching for that morning, "-you'd be lost without me."

He offered a brilliant smile in thanks, "true."

She kept a tight grip on the bundle of papers, "plans for the weekend?"

Anthony was rather fed up of this conversation and he spoke his reply in a serious tone, "rollerblading."

The paper was freed from her grasp, loosened by surprise at his answer, "you are _terrible_. You're going to be locked up in the flat again, aren't you?"

"I have trial preparation. Twelve-week fraud trials do not run themselves. I need to know the papers, to keep a tight rein on everything."

"That's utter rot, and you know it." Leaning over the bench she started tidying. _Archbold_ and _Blackstones_ were propped up behind the bookstand, files were ordered by case number, loose papers were piled into neat stacks and, all the while, she chastised, "Firstly, you know the papers by now – you must have read them twice through. Secondly, twelve-week frauds are precisely the sorts of trials which run themselves. There will be eight barristers in this room come Monday and countless solicitors, it's a group effort; these aren't the sort of trials which collapse. Thirdly, there will always be a _next_ trial, a _next_ hearing, a _next_ application. There is always preparation, you use it as an excuse not to live and it's not healthy. Fourthly –"

Raising his hands to the ceiling Anthony surrendered, "Alright. Please, _please_, no more – no more admonishing. No more points. You think I should go out more – this is a familiar argument and you make it well, as ever."

"Well, I've spent enough time around lawyers to pick up a little of how its done." He couldn't argue with that. She'd set out her case clearly and precisely and in numbered bullet points - textbook in every way. He couldn't argue with the point either. His life since Maud left, and for most of the time, in fact, when Maud was still there, was this courtroom. The ascent up the judicial ladder had been his focus. He was finally there; the High Court beckoned. This would be his last real trial and it was prepared. He could call a friend and go for a drink or meet someone at one of London's galleries. Hell, he could go rollerblading if he was of a mind to make an ass of himself. He knew he wouldn't. There was no one to call to provide the company and he didn't idle away the hours. No matter what Mrs Hughes said, the trial papers and he would spend the two days between Friday and Monday in his dining room. They would receive their fourth reading.

He swung his chair around and headed for his office, "oh, Mrs Hughes."

"Yes dear?"

"I picked an artist." He drew Ms Crawley's note from his pocket, he'd been carrying it around with him, "Can you arrange a meeting?"

"Where?"

"I don't know – what do you think? Where does one meet one's portrait artist, should I take her out or do we need to find out where her workplace is and I can go there?"

Mrs Hughes looked towards the ceiling and made a very poor showing of concealing her frustration, "She's painting you. She's getting paid. You're a Judge, you're busy. I'll ask her to come here on Monday, after Court."

He'd have spent the better part of an hour figuring out if that was rude or presumptuous. Mrs Hughes cut through his embarrassed uncertainty and reminded him of the salient facts. Even if he'd wanted to argue she'd long since left the room.


	3. Chapter 3

Snaresbrook Crown Court stood proudly in the middle of a green field, like the small manor house of some minor lord in the 18th century. It was gothic; all turrets and pointed roofs in light grey stone. Not completely unlike Downton. Edith had seen the outside of numerous courts, waiting for her Father or Matthew or Mary, and, before she discarded all thoughts of a domestic practice, even Sybil. Snaresbrook was the first historic one. Most were homages to horrendous 1980s architecture or faux Georgian, double-glazed and lacking in spirit. Snaresbrook was handsome and intimidating, it looked like the kind of place justice should reside. A swarm of haggard barristers clustered to the left of the entrance, some smoking, others discussing conspiratorially, black robes occasionally catching in the breeze.

Mrs Hughes's distinctive voice replayed in her mind. "The Judge would like to meet you, how would Monday at 4.30pm suit?" She'd wanted to argue, to question. Why on earth would he want to meet her? She'd sent no portraits, save for one of a large black dog. If he wanted to reprimand her for wasting his time she'd be happy to have a phone call. Perhaps he wanted to interview her, although she couldn't imagine why one would need to interview a portrait artist. The paintings were supposed to do the talking.

An unpleasant aspect of this experience had occurred to her then, if she was to paint this man, she would have to talk to him. Presumably they'd need to spend hours, possibly days together whilst she made a study of him and captured his likeness. Her throat was dry. She didn't want to make his acquaintance, to grope hopelessly for a thread of conversation and fail, brought to red blushes by her inability to fill an uncomfortable silence. Her whole family had the art of small talk. Edith realised at a young age that she had not been so blessed.

A film of sweat covered her forehead; she brushed aimlessly at it with her fingertips. Charging forwards up the drive she put on a brave face. It didn't matter anyway. She couldn't paint; this was a pointless trip she was unlikely to repeat. She would forget the humiliation and return to normal.

The beauty of the outside of the building was entirely absent on the inside. An absolute travesty had taken place. The ceilings had been lowered with panels and strip lighting, which purported to brighten a room but actually just cast everything in a shade of muted yellow-grey. The floors were plastic, the walls had been pebble dashed. The soul was gone. Perhaps this was what the hotel company was doing to Downton at this very moment.

Introductions were made at the front desk and the Judge's clerk emerged from a courtroom. She was as brisk and efficient as her phone call suggested she might be, but there was an immediate affability about her countenance, Edith's nerves lifted slightly as a result of being in her presence.

Mrs Hughes chatted as she led Edith down a narrow corridor, which had also been assaulted with the foul strip lighting, "They're still sitting I'm afraid. Bit of a row brewing. We haven't even panelled a Jury yet." She stopped outside a light wooden door with crooked stickers set out across the middle, "_HHJ Strallan QC_". So this was her Judge.

"Mrs Hughes?"

She opened the door and turned back, "yes dear?"

Edith ran her fingers across the first three letters, "H? H? J?"

"His Honour Judge – in this case - Anthony Strallan of Queen's Counsel." Mrs Hughes pointed at the 'Q' and the 'C'.

Edith laughed, "that bit I know." She'd been in the midst of countless conversations, usually with Mary at their centre, about the lofty ambition of every barrister on the planet; the much lauded appointment to Queen's Counsel. A long application form, with a big fee and, if you got that far, three interviews before a panel even considered your name for the list. If successful you were at the top of the profession. Mary, in work, as in every aspect of her life, wanted to be at the top.

Mrs Hughes smiled and ushered her into the office, "I have to go back to court. You can wait here, he'll be with you when they've finished."

There was something peculiarly personal about being inside someone's office. She wondered if the Judge realised someone he didn't know would be alone in here.

The room was charming. Untouched by the renovations which had ravaged the rest of the building. Two large gothic windows looked out over the expansive grounds which surrounded the court. The old glass was flecked with imperfections and the dying light dappled onto the floor. A substantial mahogany desk with a red leather top was positioned behind the door, a modern leather chair sat behind it and a green leather wingback chair in front. The desk was scattered with files, stacks of loose paper and smart red books. A ball of pink ribbon perched next to an open inkpot. There was pleasant clutter everywhere. The mantelpiece was covered in a variety of brightly coloured paperweights and a number of vases filled the space where the fire should be. This space was well lived in.

A lumpy coral coloured sofa ran along the far wall with a kettle and two tea cups on a round end table at the far side. Well-worn floorboards were covered by a huge, faded Persian rug. A large coffee table ran in front of the sofa. A black tin with gold edging balanced precariously on the edge. Edith nudged it to safety as she stepped into the centre of the room. His name was printed across the middle in golden script – '_Anthony G. Strallan Esq._' The perfection of the lettering had been eroded by chips in the paint and a large dent at the centre of the lid.

A few pictures adorned the walls. A large watercolour of the Bridge of Sighs, perhaps a compulsory purchase for any John's graduate, she was certain Matthew had the same one. Two rather gruesome chalk drawings hung behind the desk, almost obscured by a precarious tower of boxes. They were titled '_Crime_' and '_Punishment_' the first was a fox eating a chicken, the second was a dog eating the fox. They stood in complete contrast to everything else, a couple of Vettriano's and Monet's _San Giorgio Maggiore at Dusk_. The Monet was one of Edith's favourites but there was nothing remotely modern and nothing which bore much of a resemblance to her style, the Monet perhaps, but she felt foolish even thinking that. A sense of foreboding fluttered in her chest.

It was laid low when she turned her attention to the bookshelf at the far end of the room. Books: always a comfort. However, in this case, there was nothing much with which to commend His Honour Judge Strallan's taste. There were yearly 'Criminal Law Reports' dating to 1908. Edith would bet the house that he'd never used any of the ones pre-1970, yet here they all were, taking up perfectly good book space. 'Archbold Criminal Pleading, Evidence and Practice' going back to 1981; they got progressively larger with each passing year. The 2013 edition was the size of a house brick. Then there were textbooks, hundreds of them, on seemingly every aspect of law. Terribly dull. She was disappointed, which was a curious feeling; she told herself she'd hoped to while away the waiting with a good book. Her Kindle was in her bag.

She turned away from the boring tomes and the glint of metal caught her eye. At the end of the bookcase was a step and a gap. If the tread on the stair hadn't caught the light she would have missed it entirely. She ventured up the step and found that the bookcase wasn't flush to the wall. Behind it was a corridor, a corridor lined with more books. At the end was an ornate wooden door. This, she thought, was more like it. Smiling, she ran her fingers along the spines of Austen, Dickens, Tolkien, Trollope, Mitford, Faulkner, Salinger.

Casting a look back, as if to check whether she was being followed, she tried the door and fell with a squeal into the space behind it.

A male voice exclaimed, "what on earth?!"

Biting her lip Edith turned guilty to the man who'd been spared a broken nose by a matter of centimetres. "I'm sorry – so, so sorry. I didn't expect the door to be open -" she gestured to at the treacherous object, "and doors like this always stick. This one just opened, just like that." She grimaced, "sorry."

The man was tall but stocky and round. He had slicked back hair; black, with darts of silver. His expression was solemn. He wore purple robes – _judicial_ robes. The mortification swelled in her chest - she'd nearly broken her Judge's nose. And she was snooping around his office, trying doors and looking at books.

He solemnity gave way to puzzlement as he looked her up and down, "are you clerking for Strallan?" Presumably Edith looked as dumbstruck as she felt, he ploughed on, "covering Mrs Hughes?"

He thought she was an employee, because only an employee would be in the Judge's offices nearly breaking doors and noses. But he was not her Judge, so there was that, her humiliation somewhat curbed, "no. I'm here for a meeting with Judge Strallan though. Mrs Hughes is clerking, she told me to wait in his office." She hoped that, somehow, it would go unnoticed that she was no longer in the office.

"Ah, I see." He smiled warmly and shook her hand, "Charles Carson."

"His Honour Judge-" Edith gestured at the outfit, "I presume?" He nodded, "Edith Crawley, sorry again, for nearly –"

"Causing me a serious mischief?"

"Yes." Sheepishly she tried to explain, "Curiosity got the better of me - a large wooden door, at the end of a corridor of books. I wondered where it led."

"Not Narnia I'm afraid." He pointed towards the end of the corridor, "judicial dining room at the end there, my office two doors down and-" he tapped on the door just beside them, "the facilities. Deeply unexciting, that is, until a young woman comes bursting in and nearly floors me."

"Again, I am very, very sorry."

"Do not worry yourself, it was a point of interest in an otherwise routine day."

Turning, Edith begun to retreat, "I should head back in."

He caught the door before she started to shut it, "you said Mrs Hughes is working today?"

"Yes. I assume that she's with Judge Strallan."

"Good then, lovely to meet you Ms Crawley." With that, he continued into his office and Edith went back to the corridor of books.

Just as she was telling herself she would ignore her natural curiosity and go and sit on the sofa and wait patiently, as had obviously been expected, she spied a number of Iris Murdoch's on the bottom shelf. Kneeling, she realised it wasn't a few volumes; it was every single book. Academic and fiction. Her hand shook as she drew out a first edition of _The Bell_, a happy young woman, surrounded by flowers and playing with a butterfly on its cover.

A door opened and slammed shut, accompanied by non-descript mumbling. Someone had entered the office, the Judge, presumably. So he would know she was snooping. She contemplated calling out to alert him that he was not alone but there was something incredibly awkward about the image that conjured; a bodiless shout from behind the bookcase - he'd think she was mad.

She crept down the corridor and back towards the gap, perhaps she should just emerge with casual insouciance, as though there was nothing out of the ordinary about her presence at all. Edith was not really sure she could pull off casual insouciance. The incoherent muttering got louder and was accompanied by heavy footsteps.

She peered around the edge of the bookcase, but she couldn't see anyone. The muttering became more pronounced. She couldn't quite make it out, but she was fairly certain, from the tone, that it contained expletives. He didn't know she was in here; she needed to make her presence known. Casting her head towards the ceiling and trying to ignore the curl of nausea crossing her stomach, she took the step back into the office and spoke as evenly as she could manage, "hello." It was as close to casual insouciance as she was ever going to get.

The tall figure, started and braced himself against the desk with a loud exclamation of surprise. He disrupted the lever arch files and the two underneath gave way as the one on the top tumbled to the floor.

Edith raised her hand in apology and was going to commence a coherent and confident explanation. But she found she could not speak because, as she went to begin, she actually looked at him.

He was tall, much taller than she'd expected and broad, not too much, but enough - she suspected she could cocoon herself against his chest with space to spare. He had a flock of blonde hair, set too far back from his temple, exposing too much forehead and yet, perfectly situated. He ran his hand through it as he leant on the desk and strands spilled across his temple. His mouth moved, presumably words emerged, although Edith heard nothing but the thrum of her own body. Slight lines crinkled around his mouth as he talked. Then a smile spread across his face, the warmth of it filled the room and wrapped around her weary limbs. His eyes were pools of blue light, radiating intelligence and interest. This was a man like no other Edith had ever seen. She'd heard about this and read about it, about this feeling which crept through her and sped up her heartbeat and moistened her mouth. It wasn't a myth after all: _this_ was attraction.

He pushed away from the edge of the desk and moved towards her, putting out his hand. She stared at it for a few moments; her mind whirred and finally generated the expected reaction. His grip was firm with warm, smooth skin.

The voice was in her ears then. It was as if Edith could only manage to comprehend his appearance if she excluded everything else, but now the adjustment was made and the words were finally permitted entrance to her addled brain. A lilting, slightly breathless cadence floated across the space between them. He cleared his throat, "you _are_ Ms Crawley aren't you?"

She looked up from the sight of her hand in his and into his glorious eyes. He'd made the deduction on his own, she hadn't needed to explain, she hoped he hadn't said anything too important, "oh – I – yes, yes I am."


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N Thank you so much for all the lovely reviews - they help keep me going when I wonder whether I should carry on with my writing!_

The Judge looked relieved to be talking to someone he expected, "Good. You're not – well, you're not quite what –" He took a deliberate pause and broke their handshake. It left her somewhat bereft, she grimaced at her own ridiculousness. He waved his hand in the air as if dismissing a sentiment he'd never expressed, smiled again and continued, "no matter, please, sit." Edith directed herself to the green wingback chair, "I just have to get out of these, give me a moment."

He continued to divest himself of his judicial robes. He pulled his bands from his neck and folded them neatly in two. He reached around and clicked a gold stud before removing it and dropping it next to the bands on the desk. He glanced up at her and smiled as he removed his starched collar, "you must have heard me swearing?"

"Not exactly –" she tried not to be distracted but it was difficult as he opened up the first three buttons of his shirt and drew his fingers gently across his neck allowing his skin to breath. His neck muscles tightened and relaxed. She licked her lips and carried on, "I guessed you weren't very happy though – from your tone." 

He smirked, "yes, '_not very happy_'. That's a polite way of putting it." He started working on the robes themselves. They were black with purple cuffs and collars and stopped just past his knees. They were held in place by a black sash running from his left shoulder to hip and a thick black loop of fabric at the waist, "I've been battling with defence Counsel in my trial. I made a number of decisions which didn't go his way." He pulled the sash over his head and untied the one at his waist, "which is fine. That happens all the time. If I'm wrong he can appeal me – it's the way it works." He worked on the buttons running down the centre and pulled the robes off his shoulders, "But he's disrespectful in the way he speaks to me, as though I'm a child and fresh out of law school, as though I haven't done this hundreds of times and then he tries to re-open the decisions-" he raised his voice and begun what was obviously an impersonation, " '_if Your Honour would just re-consider the hearsay issue_'. I've been a Judge for seven years and it's the first time I've wanted to literally throw the book at someone."

From the wardrobe he replaced a hanging jumper with the robes. He pulled the thick grey jumper over his head and smiled, "right, tea."

It wasn't a question and she told herself it would have been rude to refuse, even though she was taking up more of his time, for what would amount to no benefit to either of them.

He stooped, somewhat ungainly, over the small table and flicked the kettle, busying himself with the tea bags, he looked at her again, "I rather unloaded on you with all that, I apologise."

"You needed to vent, I understand. I've been there. I mean - not exactly there – not in charge of a court or anything, obviously." Edith shook her head in an effort to toss away the embarrassment gathering in her cheeks. She looked down at the mug of tea he handed to her. Fifteen years at public school, three years at Cambridge, two years curating at the Fitz and a year in London. All that, and basic conversational back and forth continued to elude her; all compounded exponentially by this man's sheer magnetism. It was terribly early in the week to feel such a level of mortification.

"I feel much better for it, so thank you for that." He sat behind the desk and his blue eyes searched her face.

Desperate to appear somewhat coherent Edith enquired about his unstated first impression, "what were you going to say earlier?"

Anthony took a sip of his drink and recoiled at the heat, "when?"

"You said when you shook my hand that '_you're not quite what-_' but you never finished the thought. What am I not quite?" She smiled, more from relief than anything else, she'd proved she could speak a complete, sensible sentence and she that she had a memory for the things said to her. She was not that much of an idiot.

"Goodness, I didn't finish that thought did I? I am unaccustomed to not finishing thoughts." Edith furrowed her forehead; she left things unsaid at least ten times a day. He noticed her disbelief, he spoke with a shrug, "I'm a Judge, Ms Crawley and, before that I was a barrister, we finish thoughts: it's part of the job description." He took a gulp of tea and drew his finger up the side to catch a drip, "I suppose I was taken aback by you."

Edith felt the flapping of a butterfly in the depths of her stomach, "Oh?" There was a beat before he spoke again and suddenly there was a flight of them, beating their wings, generating a maelstrom of anticipation in their wake.

He cleared his throat, "You're not quite what I was expecting. That's what I was going to say."

The question came unbidden as though her mouth moved without permission, "What were you expecting?"

The quirk of an eyebrow was accompanied by a small, crooked smile, which even in the short time they had spent together she was coming to recognise as conspicuously his, "I'll disappoint you with my stereotyping."

The butterflies were back, in the depths of her stomach, why should disappointing her be any kind of concern for a man such as this? She heard the echo of Sybil's pleading voice, '_stop overthinking everything'. _

He ploughed on, "I expected you to be old, ancient actually, perhaps in some sort of kaftan –"

Edith choked on a gulp of tea, "a kaftan?"

"Oh, yes –" he gestured to his chest, "with lots of beads." He pursed his lips and grimaced, "and I thought you'd be about twenty stone." Edith could manage no admonishment at his terrible stereotyping, in fact, she laughed. She looked down at her pale pink shirt (unadorned with beads, of any kind), covered with a lilac cardigan and plain jeans, arched an eyebrow and laughed again. Anthony responded in kind, "as I say, you are not what I expected."

He reached under his desk and Edith heard a draw spring open. Anthony offered her an open packet of biscuits, "that's the thing about being a lawyer. You end up trading in stereotypes, making assumptions about people before you've even met. Thinking you know everything meaningful before a person has even opened their mouth. It's why Judges don't decide on innocence and guilt – we're too jaded." If Matthew and Mary were anything to go by he would be jaded after a career like the one he must have had, but at least he knew it.

"So come on, Ms Crawley, what did you expect of me?"

His eyes flashed at her. She smiled but she would not be drawn, trying to offer an answer to that enquiry would only provide further verbal humiliation. Quite deliberately she took her time chewing a Rich Tea. The truth was she'd expected him to be terrifying. And he was, but in a completely different way to how she imagined. She had not expected him to be so – well – beautiful. She had not expected to have a physical, mental and emotional reaction to his very presence. She gently shook her head, "I am not foolish enough to play that game." She lied, and he would know it, "I had no expectations, I am completely open minded."

He did know it, and he accused warmly, "Liar."

"Oh, ok - I thought you'd be skinny - skeletal, happy? Then I met Judge Carson and realised that not all Judges are skinny. So I revised my expectations and thought perhaps you wouldn't be either."

"You met Charlie? When?"

In her imagination Edith raised her hand and smacked it to her forehead. He might never have found out about her trip to Narnia and then she'd revealed it all by herself. She sidestepped, waving a dismissive hand, "long story. Why did you want to meet with me Judge Strallan?"

"I'd have hoped that was pretty obvious -" He twirled his chair around with somewhat of a flourish and lifted her portfolio where it leaned against the wall. She had noticed so much about the office, but not that. He put it on the desk between them, "I'd like you to paint my portrait."

If the proverbial feather had been available Edith was sure he could have knocked her down with it. She thought this meeting was to reprimand her for wasting his time. Although, she supposed, his demeanour had not indicated as much, quite the opposite. At the very least she'd expected some sort of interview, which in some ways would have been worse than a reprimand. But to simply be offered the job was nothing short of laughable. She hadn't sent a single portrait. And her pictures – she didn't know what to make of her own pictures. She knew she was not devoid of talent and she wanted to be a professional artist. She knew she could be, she could make money. The tortured artist persona had never appealed to Edith; she didn't look at her creations and weep in despair at their inadequacies, whilst at the same time trying to sell them via private galleries. Quite the contrary, she was proud of what she could do, but her pictures were not easily categorised and would probably never find their way into the annals of art history.

More important than all of that though - it had deserted her, whatever talent she had, it was gone. She couldn't paint any more. The curve of a hill, the bend of a river, the light at a window – they were there, in her mind's eye, but her hand could not bring them to life. The brush hung there, limp, dripping paint. He couldn't know any of this; she'd sent a portfolio. It was a tremendously silly thing to do now that she thought about it, she would have to tell him and then he really would reprimand her and she would leave and their time together would be at an end. Frustration pushed at her lungs.

"Why?" her voice was laced with scepticism.

He blinked and shook his head, "I'll be honest, I thought the response would be effusive acceptance. But if I am required to justify it – you were the best artist I looked at."

"But I didn't send any portraits."

"You sent the dog."

Edith spoke seriously, because the topic was terribly serious for her, "you are not a dog." She heard the pitiful excuse for a sentence as it emerged and was powerless to stop it.

The crooked smile returned in earnest, "no - no I am not."

"You know what I mean. There's a world of difference between that and painting a person. I have never painted a person. Not once. I paint places and things, Judge Strallan. You must have had hundreds of pictures from proper artists."

He exhaled and leant back in his chair, "You are not a barrister or a prospective barrister, you are not a solicitor and - thank heavens - you have not appeared in my Court as a Defendant – call me Anthony."

He begun to take her pictures out of the file and set them out on the desk's surface, pushing a pile of files to one side and causing another landslide of papers. He appeared not to notice, "There were lots of pictures of people. I could see that they were good likenesses in nearly every case. I cannot speak about '_proper artists_'." He raised two fingers on each hand and air quoted her phrase, "I do not know what that means, if you put paint to paper you are an artist, in my mind at least. But then my knowledge of art is –" he cast an eye to his Vettriano, "limited."

He fanned his hand across her painting of the Eiffel Tower, his fingers caressing the criss-crossing struts. Edith could feel her pulse dancing in her throat. He looked straight at her, "but when I looked at your paintings, I wasn't just _seeing_ – I was feeling. And the first made me want to see the second and the third and the fourth. They took me somewhere else. They arrested my senses. They're vibrant and warm and interesting. And from the very moment I saw the first one, I knew it would have to be you."

Her jaw dropped and she flushed with pleasure. She squeezed her fingers into a fist and forced all of her delight into her hands because otherwise she might have to get up out of the seat and jump around. He liked her art, very much, it would seem. She allowed herself a disbelieving exclamation of laughter and a full smile. He shrugged and smiled back.

Reality, as it was wont to do, struck Edith very squarely in the chest. Her fists unravelled and the smile melted away. It was all for nothing. His disappointment would be all the more acute now. Her head bowed down and she ran a finger around the edge of the watch that had been Sybil's. She swallowed the rising lump in her throat and blinked back the threat of tears.

He seemed to notice the change in her, "Ms Crawley?"

The idea of explaining was an exhausting one, but explain she must. Her fingers lifted and played with the edge of a pink ribbon, unravelling from the ball of them at the edge of the desk.

She couldn't look at him, it was too difficult.

Her voice cracked, "my sister died." That wasn't the right place to start. There was no need to tell him that at all, but it poured from her like a tap she could not turn off, "she was a lawyer – a barrister, as it happens – she worked in the City when she was called to the Bar, but she wanted to help people, to do something more than make money. She went to Syria, Iran, Afghanistan - all over the Middle East. A bomb fell on her hostel once, but she got out with just a two inch cut to her shoulder. Indestructible, really. I never worried about her, not even for a moment." Absentmindedly Edith wondered what the moisture on her face was, at first she thought it might be raining, but then she remembered they were indoors. She was crying, she had never cried about Sybil. "Then she met someone. A photo journalist." It came quickly now – the anger and sadness made it impossible to speak slowly, "She was in love and happy and engaged and then back here and married and pregnant and –" Her voice gave way as she spoke the truth of the last year to a complete stranger, "and dead."

His hand covered hers. Warmth and comfort crept up her arm. She looked intently at the blue veins winding up into the knuckles and disappearing beneath the pale skin. Her voice was a whisper, "women aren't supposed to die in childbirth any more."

Gingerly his fingers lifted her palm off the desk and dipped underneath, he held her hand as though it was the most normal action in the world. Swallowing heavily she looked at him. He was leaning across the desk, frown lines canyoning across his face, eyes filled with sympathy. Edith could have sat there for the rest of the day, certainly the rest of the week, if not the whole month, and absorbed the solace he offered. She rolled her tongue in her cheek and shook her head trying to stop her tears. She had coped with the feelings on her own for so long. She told no one, talked to no one about any of it. But here she was, allowing it all out. A sensible voice announced itself at the back of her mind - _what are you doing?_ This Judge – lovely as he was being – was not a solution to the problem, he was just being nice. In a moment he'd tell her to pull herself together and she would have to struggle on in solitude once again.

Removing her hand from within his, she tried to ignore the sense of loss. Roughly she brushed away her tears and allowed herself a rueful laugh as she continued, "I haven't been able to paint – draw – sketch – I haven't been able to so much as doodle since she died." Edith stood and his eyes followed her up, "so you see, Anthony -" she took a brief pause, enjoying the shape of his name on her tongue, "I've wasted your time. I can't paint your portrait. I can't paint anything. I'm sorry. I should go."

Standing, she reached around to get her coat from the back of the chair. His voice cut through her, a level deeper than it had been before, "Edith." The use of her first name shocked her somehow, particularly from his lips, in the deep cadence of his changed voice. She turned back to him; he remained sitting, unsmiling and gestured to the chair, "sit." It was not a question. She was not one to simply do as commanded. She had announced her intention to leave; ordinarily she would balk at someone asking her to do the opposite. Not him, with that tone of voice and those eyes and the memory of his fingers wrapped around her hand, pressing into the flesh beneath her thumb. Without even a second thought, she sat.

"Grief –" he shook his head, "there's nothing quite like it. Utterly consuming – and yet - dull and tedious and insipid."

She nodded slowly, amazed at his articulation of something so true, "yes, that's right – it's boring. It's so, so boring, to feel like this, to be unable to push it away. It's just _there_ – always there."

"Had you lost anyone close before your sister?"

"No - aunts, uncles, a grandfather – but nothing like losing Sybil." 

"It gets easier – I can't promise when it will start to settle, but it will. It will always be there, but it'll find a notch in your mind and cease to invade every aspect of your life." He inclined his head towards her, "do you believe me?"

She did, absolutely, "yes."

"Good. Your skills aren't gone Edith. They're just buried temporarily under all that dull, tedious, insipid pain. A talent of your magnitude cannot be destroyed by it. You can still paint, draw, sketch. And you will. Do you believe that?"

She was a little less sure, but trusted his words, "yes."

"Good." He shuffled her pictures together, "so, here is what I propose. I have a very long and boring trial commencing tomorrow. A fraud, likely to last many months." He pushed the pictures back into her folder, "Come to court this week and next, have a go at drawing me, sketching me - however you say it –"

She cut him off, "I've just – I've tried. I've tried, so many times. I don't think I can."

"Try again, please. Just for two weeks – nine days, actually, of trying. If at the end of it you don't feel up to it, we'll go our separate ways and I'll ask one of the others to do the picture."

He looked imploringly at her, chin dipped slightly. His fingers played nervously with the corner of her portfolio.

She wanted to paint him, too look upon his features and map them in her mind. She wanted to be the one to capture his likeness for posterity, to try and capture his essence. All her other attempts since Sybil had begun out of habit, painting was what she did and thus she tried to do it. For him, for his picture, she wanted to find a way, perhaps that would make the difference.

Her voice was quiet, "Alright then."


	5. Chapter 5

Anthony went from Rugby to Cambridge to the Inns of Court Law School to Chambers to the Crown Court. He couldn't remember a time when he hadn't known his life would take such a course. It was inevitable he would be barrister, a silk, a judge. When one was so completely, inexorably caught on a particular path it was easy to discount the aspects of the world which could not assist in the journey.

Edith Crawley fell squarely off the path. He wanted her to paint his portrait because he wanted it to be different and remarkable. He wanted to stand out amongst all the other High Court Judges John's had produced. That was his only requirement of her. So, the minute she told him that she couldn't paint he should have let her leave. He had no use for an artist who couldn't paint.

But she didn't leave. Not because there was no opportunity for her to do so – she stood up, she nearly had her coat on. But because he stopped her.

Now he sat looking at her, waiting to see if she would try for two weeks to see if she could manage a sketch. Just a sketch – just a try at a sketch, in fact - that was all he'd asked and he'd put all of his powers of persuasion into it. He might waste a fortnight with her and he'd be no closer to the portrait at the end of it.

He ran his index finger around the corner of the heavy cardboard of the portfolio. A moment before he had held her hand within his and fought an urge to brush away her tears. Her eyes were cast down to her lap; she drew her alluring bottom lip between her teeth. For a reason he didn't care to acknowledge he silently willed her to agree.

"Alright then."

She spoke so quietly it took a moment for the words to make themselves known across the expanse of the desk. Relief washed over him and he felt the tension rise off his shoulders. Her deep brown eyes looked at him and he smiled broadly, "good. Excellent."

"I can't make any promises."

"I know, I wouldn't ask you to –" he feigned indifference, "if you can't do it I'll get someone else, it's not a problem."

The carriage clock on the mantelpiece begun its hourly call. Six chimes. They sat in silence amidst the precise sounds. She was happier now. The tears had dried, the, somehow endearing, red splotches beneath her eyes begun to recede. There was such delicacy in her. He was surprised that she could have produced the pictures. She was so slight, diminutive, with pale skin, hair neither blonde nor brown, not beautiful yet far from ugly. The pictures were alive with colour but she could almost blend dead away into the background. He suspected it was by design. The way she pushed her shoulders back into the chair and held her hands clasped in her lap, chin slightly too low – it gave her away. This was not a woman who wanted to be seen. He wondered if she ever showed the colours she was capable of, other than on the canvass, and what it would take to bring them out.

He scolded himself for his thoughts. "They'll want to lock up." He helped her into her coat, his hand brushing across her cotton-covered upper arm. Busying himself he gathered the few weighty law books he needed into his holdall.

A solitary book sat on the coffee table, he recognised it as the one she'd been grasping when she emerged so unexpectedly from behind the bookcase. He picked it up – _The Bell_ - and held it out to her, "would you like to borrow this?"

Frown lines darted to her nose, "oh – I – no. I have my own copy at home. It's just that, well, that's a first edition, I was curious. Reverent actually."

"I interrupted your worship?"

"Something like that." He returned her smile, delighted to have caused her some amusement.

"I don't get to my fiction section much any more."

The smile was gone, "you don't read the books?"

"I read them all when I was at University, but I long ago replaced works of fantasy with works of reality." He tapped on the sexual offences textbook on his desk, "sometimes brutal reality."

Now she looked downright displeased and a bubble of unease spread in his stomach, "How long has it been since you read a novel?" Her tone accused.

Lying would be easier than confirming the harsh truth about his lifestyle, but he wouldn't lie to her, "not since before I took silk – which is becoming Queen's Counsel."

Edith's fingers tapped a gentle rhythm on top of the leather chair, "And that was?"

He winced, the answer would age him. Or rather, it wouldn't, it would simply confirm the truth about his age. He was much older than her. It was a ridiculous thing to be concerned about, she would know that people didn't become High Court Judges without the advantage of experience, "15 years."

Her hand went to her cheek and her lips pouted a misshapen heart of disapproval. He imagined brushing it away with a kiss. The thought came from nowhere and he quickly shoved it aside.

"You have such a wonderful collection! And the books you've missed in the last 15 years. There has been some magnificent writing. I'll do you a list."

He laughed then, "will you?"

"Yes and you'll find time to read through it. You can't possibly go to the High Court with such a gap in your education."

He couldn't help a wry smile, the plain wallflower was issuing demands. She didn't write him off because of his literary failings – she had a plan to fix him, "Can't I? I'm not sure how much assistance I'll derive from modern fiction when I am considering conviction appeals and judicial review applications."

"You need to understand more than the law – you need to understand people and novels are a means of doing that. They'll help you stop being jaded." Her voice was raised and firm. A flush crept into her cheeks. Perhaps she was beautiful. He turned around to pack up, _what the hell did that matter?!_

"I should –" she made a vague gesture towards the door, "I'll see you tomorrow."

Anthony put the last of the books into his bag. He paused a moment and put the Murdoch in as well, "how did you get here?"

"Tube."

"Me too." He heaved the bag onto his shoulder, "Are you going back to central London?"

"Yes. Well, Brixton."

He teased, "Fancy that, an artist living in Brixton."

"And where do you live?"

He caught himself before he said Sevenoaks, old habits died hard. "Notting Hill."

Her smile was sweet as she mimicked his dry tone back to him, "Well, fancy that, a judge living in Notting Hill."

He laughed and raised his hand, "alright, we are both clichés." He was delighted that they were going in the same direction. He told himself he was simply pleased to break the daily tedium of a solitary commute, "Care for some company on the journey?"

She worked at the buttons on her coat before undoing them almost immediately, "I-" she cast her eyes around the office as if looking for something, "yes, why not."

He popped his head back into the courtroom and shouted a goodnight to Mrs Hughes, although she was probably with the Judge next door and wouldn't hear his good evening. Casting his eyes down to Edith he opened the door for her. She didn't immediately follow him through, "I could carry one of those you know? Ease the load?" He didn't follow the meaning and she nodded pointedly at his lumpy bag.

"Heavens no – this is barely anything. I am quite accustomed to acting as a packhorse. You concentrate on the paintings. I would be upset if any harm came to them."

They walked down the poorly lit judge's corridor. She begun but didn't finish, "well, I-"

"What?"

"I was going to say I could just paint some more, but of course, perhaps I never will." She allowed herself a false laugh, undoubtedly to lighten the mood, but Anthony didn't buy it.

"Somewhere in that statement is a little bit of optimism, Ms Crawley."

"Edith – please -" Her tone implored and he couldn't refuse it, "was there?"

"Edith, then. Yes. You had a brief moment in which you thought you would paint again." They arrived at the heavy nineteenth century door at the end of the corridor and she couldn't manage the dead bolt. He leant past her to work at himself, "that's progress from only a few minutes ago."

The cold air of early March whipped around their feet and skirted through Anthony's hair and into his bones. He flicked up his collar for a little extra protection. That first step outside was usually when he commenced some semblance of detachment from his work. The elements cleansed the day from his skin and helped untangle the muddle of issues in his mind. Only when outside did he stop re-hearing the decisions already decided and picking apart the submissions already offered, only then did the various voices and verbal ticks of myriad counsel cease to be a veritable din in the back of his mind. Not today though, all of that had already stopped. Disconcertingly he realised that his mind had cleared when he'd seen Edith Crawley emerge from behind his bookcase.

He locked the door behind them and turned to find his young companion some distance away standing on the grass – just behind the sign reading '_No Walking On The Grass_' – straining her neck to look at the building. A mist of moisture emerged from her slightly parted lips and the wind swept the hair from her face.

He too ignored the sign and moved to stand beside her, looking up at whatever was catching her attention.

"This is an extraordinary building."

He examined the peaks and valleys of her profile. The pink in her cheeks rose as the cold nipped at them, "Yes." She glanced over at him, he was caught and he turned away to look at the building, "shame about the internal renovations."

"Yes - they are _terrible_." They trudged up the grass towards the main road and the red circle promising quick transport. "You managed to save your office though?"

"I threatened to chain myself to the door. Mrs Hughes pointed out that there were three doors to the office – one from the corridor, one from the court and the one behind the bookcase - so I went with a peaceful protest instead. I lay down in the middle of the floor when they came to pull out the fixtures and fittings."

Her fingers went to her mouth and her eyes widened, "you didn't?"

"I did. The mania for cost cutting had gone too far. I would not let them take my office as well. Such a wonderful building costs a little more to maintain, but it's worth it, don't you think?"

She nodded and led the way into the tube station.

"My parents just sold our family home for that very reason." Anthony didn't follow and arched an eyebrow, "maintenance costs, that is."

"Ah - I'm guessing it wasn't a five bed semi then?"

"No."

They stood on the right and the escalators rolled them down towards the platform. Quite unintentionally he'd stepped on first, turned to continue and almost found his head directly in her chest as his step unfolded to the lower level. Fresh linen and traces of lavender filled his senses. He stepped away before he was tempted to breathe her in.

"Anthony?"

"Sorry, what?"

"Downton Abbey, have you heard of it?"

The cranks of his mind moved him back to the current conversation and away from the dangerous, cobwebbed alleys into which he had strayed. "I - as a matter of fact I have." Anthony was always staggered to realize how small the world was, "you're a Downton Abbey Crawley?!" He nearly fell off the end of the escalator, catching himself just on the precipice of embarrassment; he smoothed his trip into a large stride.

"Well, I'm a Crawley and I grew up there, so yes, I suppose, in theory, yes."

"You must know Mary?"

The grimace writ large on her face, she replied, "elder sister, do you know her?"

She was at Maud's Chambers. Maud had led her in two big fraud cases and a conspiracy to supply drugs. He knew quite a lot about the cool, calculating and extremely ambitious Mary Crawley, but only from Maud's dinner table conversation. Why not tell her? He didn't want to talk about Maud. He didn't even want to be thinking of her at this moment; so he didn't. "By reputation, she's only appeared in front of me a few times, fierce lady - fierce barrister. Your father's a solicitor, isn't he?"

"He is."

He ushered her onto the train. Not crowded but, as usual, no seats. They stood and grasped the yellow railings, "Is Matthew Crawley your brother?"

Edith levered her pictures in between where she stood and the side of the carriage and leaned against one of the plastic partitions, "no. Everyone makes that assumption and we did grow up together. He was just a neighbor, the surname is a coincidence."

"Goodness, and Sybil a barrister as well – my father was a barrister and eventually a Judge, but that's nothing compared to you - you have a better legal lineage than I do, you're surrounded by lawyers!"

She shrugged, "I'm the odd one out. They tried to talk me into doing law at Cambridge and then law after Cambridge. Every time I go home my father mentions it –" she lowered her voice and scowled, "_you can still do it Edith, plenty of people go to the Bar late in life._" The train drew into the next station and a melee of people rushed on, liquid bodies, starting to fill the spaces around them. Anthony put his bag between his feet and shuffled closer to Edith. "I can't think of anything worse." She flushed and bit her lip, "I mean – I know you are – were - a barrister – but for me it wouldn't be – I'm sure it's a worthwhile profession but –"

There was something charming about seeing her flounder. He was somehow gratified that she might think she could have offended him, "Edith, it's fine. It's not for everyone and, God knows, it has its drawbacks. Thank goodness you _didn't_ become a barrister. I'd be standing here with one of the other artists, knowing my portrait would be boring and soulless and just like all the others."

That was a lie, of course. He wouldn't have asked anyone else if they were travelling back to central London, let alone invited them to accompany him, such spontaneity was simply not in his nature, neither, he admitted, was a desire to spend time with someone. People had become a means to an end for Anthony – work colleagues, networking opportunities, legal sounding boards. This woman was none of those things. But he wanted to take the tube with her, he wanted to speak a little more with her and, when more bodies crushed on at the next station, he wanted to be forced into an intimate proximity with her. Anthony's arm reached around her small body to grasp the nearest pole and her shoulder butted into his chest. He could smell her hair. A small dip of the head and they could kiss.

Looking at the faces in the carriage, she cleared her throat and the dart of her tongue moistened her lips.

He wrenched his mind from thoughts of her lips – her tongue – there was no need to think of body parts unless presiding over a violence trial. He grabbed for his original point of his interrogation about the Downton Abbey Crawleys, "Do you know Locksley?"

"The house? Yes, it's not far from Downton, why?"

"We are both refugees of the decline and fall of the British aristocracy, Edith. Locksley should have been mine, but my father was forced to sell it."

They shared memories then, as only children of the Yorkshire countryside can, even if their experiences were separated by more years than Anthony cared to acknowledge.

A quiet settled between them as the weight of the train rumbled into zone one. Edith's shoulder, quiet pleasantly, nestled into his chest, his arm fitting around her small form. Her headed tilted up and he felt the movement of her eyes up his neck and he met them before she had to strain, "do you regret not having Locksley?" She paused and continued, "I mean, for me, the sale of Downton was the loss of my childhood home, it's where I played with my siblings and where Sybil is –" she cleared her throat, "buried. But it was as much a place of adolescent torment and insecurity as anything else. Besides - I was never going to inherit. That's not the case for you."

Edith's eyes burned with curiosity, flecks of gold firing as she waited, perhaps to compare her own experiences with those of a first born male heir, "I never thought all that much about it. I couldn't have become a Judge if I'd had to manage Locksley – as my Father discovered. Managing the estate stalled his career – along with having a family, of course. Only when he got rid of it did he make it to the Bench and he never made it to the High Court. Locksley is a place for a family man, a farmer with enthusiasm for that side of life. That was never me."

She looked disappointed with that answer, nodding an acknowledgment but offering no response. He wanted to smooth it over. He was not the automaton that answer had suggested, "what I mean –"

At that moment the train jolted its way into Oxford Circus. Edith careened into him, her hands planting firmly in the middle of his chest. She righted herself quickly and flushed, "sorry." She pointed towards the doors, "this is me."

Trying to ignore the heat radiating from where her hands had surely left scalding marks, Anthony followed her to the opening doors, "Edith, perhaps you would – if you wanted to – it's not too much further -" _To my flat. We could eat left over pie and talk some more._ The idea was formulated, it was so simple but he couldn't speak it. He had work to do and it was entirely inappropriate to monopolise her time, at his flat, on a cold March evening. Foolish man.

Edith laughed and raised her eyebrows, "that's the second unfinished thought of the day – worrying!"

"Yes." The doors rung their warning sound and Edith stepped out of the carriage. Anthony abandoned the idea, as he knew he should, and left the thoughts unfinished, "I'll see you tomorrow."

She waved a goodbye as the closing doors separated them; he watched her walk down the platform until the darkness of the tunnel stole his view.


	6. Chapter 6

The fortnight had gone extraordinarily quickly. Edith was drawn into Anthony's routine. On the Tuesday morning she arrived at court and was ushered into his office by Mrs Hughes for coffee and _pain au chocolat_. It was almond croissants on Wednesday morning after Edith expressed a preference for them. They dined together in the judicial dining room, luckily only HHJ Carson was sitting and he was too distracted by sharing his lunch with Mrs Hughes to enquire about the young woman who had nearly broken his nose earlier in the week. On Thursday Anthony bought them both sandwiches and they walked in the court grounds to a secluded bench. It was decidedly chilly but with brilliant sunshine. Her initial difficulties had completely dissipated; she found that Anthony was one of the few people in life she could talk to and they did talk and talk.

At the end of every day they took the tube home together and every day Edith prayed for leaves on the line or signal failures. On Wednesday some brilliant maintenance worker dumped a load of concrete into the signal box at Victoria and she and Anthony spent an hour and a half on the train reading that day's copy of the _Evening Standard_ from cover to cover, discussing the news; laughing at the nonsense, sympathizing with the tragedy. The evenings became slots of time between leaving Anthony and seeing him again.

And, from somewhere, it had come back - she could draw. She'd stared at a blank piece of paper for most of Tuesday. It had never seemed more daunting, pristine, white. A gaping space of nothing, and her powerless to have any affect on its state. With a churning stomach Edith glanced up to the Bench and found Anthony looking directly at her. He flashed a small crooked smile, meant only for her and winked. Then, there it was, the pencil in her hand and an eye. The next day there was another and then a mouth and a nose, a whole face looking back at her matching the real one, offering another private smile.

Edith was delighted; she would be able to paint the portrait. A solitary fortnight at Snaresbrook would not be the end of it.

On the Friday morning Edith slipped into the empty courtroom from the Judge's entrance. She took her seat in the press gallery. Mrs Hughes gave her a carafe of water. From the corner of her eye she saw billowing black robes accompanied by shiny-suited Defendants. The door of the dock squeaked to allow their admission.

She could feel eyes upon her. She took three pencils from her patterned case. A torso encased in a dark navy suit appeared in her peripheral vision, a wig set down next to her tools. Slowly Edith raised her chin and arched an eyebrow. Chiseled cheekbones and blonde hair looked down at her, a mischievous smile, boyish, like one of Matthew's school friends who used to play in the gardens at Downton and tease her endlessly.

"Who are you sketching for?"

"Excuse me?"

"Which news organisation - Guardian? BBC?" Her confusion must have shown in her features, "you are a court artist?"

Realisation dawned, "oh, no, I'm not."

His eyes narrowed in response, "what are you sketching then?"

Edith gestured towards Anthony's empty chair at the front of the room, "the Judge."

The barrister scoffed his reply, "Strallan?! Why?!"

Edith's stomach churned, she wasn't entirely sure how to proceed given the need for discretion about Anthony's appointment, "I-". He continued to look suspiciously at her, with an eyebrow raised, a glint in his eye; she had a sense of how it might feel to face his ere whilst in the witness box.

The second barrister spoke without looking at them, he was leafing through a large red book, "Mike, I think the lady is trying to find a polite way to tell you to mind your own bloody business."

He looked over to his colleague and then back to her, "right." The smile came back to his face, "sorry. It's alright for Batesy there -" he waved a casual hand behind his back in the direction of the other barrister, "he's appeared in thousands of court drawings."

Behind him 'Batsey' looked up and rolled his eyes, he held up four fingers and mouthed the number, "four."

The blonde continued, "I have yet to be so honoured." He thrust a hand in front of her face, "Michael Gregson, defending." Edith shook it. He turned to the black haired barrister behind him and gestured, "and that's John Bates."

Bates nodded in her direction with a warm smile and said simply, "prosecuting."

With a slight flush to her cheeks Edith competed the introductions, "Edith Crawley, sketching."

Gregson laughed and turned back to her, "how are you finding the trial so far?"

She tried in vain to contain her grimace. The truth was that she'd been there for five days and barely heard any of it. It was merely background noise compared to the symphony of looking at Anthony. The dart of cheekbones, the intelligence in his eyes, the curving lilt of his lips, the smile that appeared to play across them when he caught her eye, the bands of his neck muscles tensing when he considered a difficult point. He must carry the tension right down to his shoulders, she could massage it away. She listened when he spoke, she couldn't help it. His voice - his court voice, she supposed, because it was different to his ordinary voice - was gentle but firm. It carried the room without the need for the microphone, imbued with a persuasive authority which she felt from the tip of her head to the ends of her toes. The portrait had to carry a sense of that voice, it was so much a part of him.

"Honestly, I've been very absorbed in my work and I would be lying if I said I had much to say about the trial at all."

"Well, Batesy is known for his ability to call the most boring prosecution case possible-" Bates muttered an expletive in Gregson's direction, "and this case is a multi-jurisdictional land grab fraud so the material wasn't all that fascinating to begin with." He picked up his wig and flicked it onto his head in a single easy motion. Anthony had that knack too, putting on the curious item as if it were nothing more than a jacket or a shirt.

Mrs Hughes spoke out behind them, "stand please." Edith caught sight of the door to the Judge's chamber opening.

Gregson put his hand on hers as she stood and whispered, "just wait until I call the defence case." He winked, "you'll be riveted." He drew his hand away, running his index finger from her knuckle to the tip of her finger, completely unnecessarily. Such smooth, practiced flirtation made her feel uncomfortable. Flirting had never come naturally to Edith, particularly not when she had no interest in the person and she could count the number of people she had been interested in on one hand. Half a hand, actually. She wondered if Anthony had heard it or seen the touch. She dismissed the thought; it would be an irrelevance in the context of his day, if he was looking her direction at all, which he wouldn't be.

"Mr Gregson - I wasn't aware Counsel addressed the Bench from beside the press desks." For the first time since she'd met him Anthony sounded annoyed. He was looking. Glaring, in fact, directly at them.

Gregson wrinkled his nose and plastered on a dazzling smile, turning, he bowed slightly, "forgive me, Your Honour, I was unavoidably distracted."

"This Court commences at 10am. That means Counsel at the Bar by 10am. Can I suggest that on Monday you find a means of avoiding the unavoidable?" Anthony's blue eyes darted towards her as Gregson meandered around the back of the courtroom to his proper position. Anthony had no smile for her, if anything it was the opposite, his brow furrowed. Edith's cheeks burned. She'd disrupted the whole trial and irritated him. A lump of frustration rose in her throat. She grasped her darkest pencil and pressed the tip to the cream pad. The lead snapped. The cylinder of gray rolled across the paper and settled in the corner.

The Jury came in and the trial recommenced in its usual unruly fashion. Edith stared at the lead in frustration. A yellow pencil sharpener was placed in the middle of the paper and her eyes darted up Mrs Hughes's arm, she nodded towards the Judge and Edith's eyes met Anthony's. He gave her his usual smile and a wink.

Forcing her lips together to avoid beaming at him like a smitten girl with a hopeless crush, which is exactly what she was, she sharpened her pencil and commenced an attempt at his upper body. Such joy from a pencil sharpener; she was in trouble, deep trouble.

The week finished at lunchtime. Mr Gregson insisted he required time with his client and no one involved was going to argue with an early Friday. Edith waited until the courtroom had emptied and Mrs Hughes let her into the judge's chambers. Anthony held out a steaming cup of peppermint tea as she came in, she slipped out of her coat and put her paper and pens onto the edge of his desk, "thank you."

"You're welcome."

Edith sat herself in the wingback chair, as she always did. Anthony had already taken off his wig and robes. He pulled on a grey jumper over his shirt. The static charged his hair into a fine cloud around his head and with a sheepish glance at her he smoothed it down.

He eyed her papers, "I've avoided asking you about it for the last two weeks, you know."

"The sketching?"

"Yes. Didn't want to put pressure on you. But I think –"

Both of their heads turned to the knock at the office door. Anthony looked over to her and gave a slight eye roll, "come in."

Mrs Hughes came in and gave a warm smile. Edith had never met someone who moved in a manner which reflected their personality but Mrs Hughes did just that. There was efficiency in the manner she entered and handed Anthony all the papers he'd left and the three law books – she carried all of that out of the courtroom, knocked on the door and opened it, seemingly without any difficulties.

"How have you enjoyed your time with us Ms Crawley?"

Anthony was suddenly fascinated by his cup of tea.

"It's been excellent, thank you Mrs Hughes, you've been very accommodating."

"I was given firm instructions -"

Anthony cleared his throat, "I only wish we had a more interesting trial for you."

"I don't think Ms Crawley has paid even one iota of attention to the trial." An almost imperceptible look passed between them and Anthony scowled.

"I'm afraid you've got me there."

Another knock. Leaning back in his chair Anthony cast his eyes to the ceiling. He spoke under his breath, "like bloody Piccadilly Circus." He sighed, "yes, come in, more the merrier."

HHJ Carson joined them, in his full regalia, "Strallan, you don't have –" He caught sight of Mrs Hughes and lost his train of thought. He seemed to have lost all sense of everything, actually, except her, "Mrs Hughes, hello."

"Your Honour."

"Good morning?"

Anthony looked at Edith and his eyebrows darted upwards, he took a sip of his tea and she returned the look with a surreptitious smile. Not that either Mrs Hughes or Judge Carson would have noticed any look that passed between them. The way they were looking at one another they wouldn't notice if she'd got up and kissed Anthony full on the mouth. There was a thought. She looked back at him, he leant back in his chair watching the scene play out between his clerk and fellow judge occasionally shaking his head or arching an eyebrow. He was the single most handsome man she'd ever seen. His pursed lips, incredulous at the unspoken affair taking place in his office, simply begged for that kiss.

Mrs Hughes, at last, remembered that there were other people in the room. She turned to Anthony, "sorry, Your Honour, anything else you need?"

Draining the last of his tea he shook his head. Edith went to take the cup off him and placed it together with hers on the tea tray.

With a last look at Judge Carson Mrs Hughes excused herself, "next week then. Hope to see you again Ms Crawley." And with that, she was gone. Judge Carson stared at the closed door as if willing it to open again with her on the other side.

Edith bit her lip and Anthony cleared his throat. Carson looked down at him, as if surprised to find him in the room, "you wanted something Charlie?"

"Did I?"

Edith laughed.

"Yes, you came into my office asking if I had something and then you got distracted."

"Right. Cannot remember for the life of me what I wanted now. I'll - " he cast an eye at Edith, "leave you to it."

"Charlie, you know why Edith has been here the past couple of weeks?"

"Marshaling?"

Perplexed, Edith inquired, "Marshaling?"

Anthony looked unhappy, "when law students shadow judges - for the experience." He turned back to Carson, "No, Charlie, Edith is not marshaling. She is not a law student. Or any other kind of student. She's painting my portrait." His eyes darted to hers for a moment, "possibly."

"Why?"

"I'm taking Red in the Autumn and John's require a portrait." He waved a hand, the details didn't matter, "The appointment is confidential, as you'll appreciate. I'm telling you because Mrs Hughes is coming with me." Carson's mouth fell open and Edith's chest constricted in sympathy, "It's a promotion for her too Charlie."

"Of course, good for her and you – good." The disappointment was palpable.

The silence hung around them before Anthony interrupted it with his best judicial voice, "You need to tell her you're in love with her Charlie - before we leave - you'll regret it if you don't." Edith's eyes widened and she looked at Anthony. He'd spoken as if it was the most natural conversation in the world. He cared for his colleagues and he saw, as Edith had, that they might be perfect for one another and had decided to give them a push in the right direction.

Carson's face reddened very quickly. He stammered a few incoherent syllables and let himself out.

Anthony considered the closed door for a moment and turned back to her, "What were we talking about?"

Edith smiled broadly, "that was a lovely thing you just did."

"What? Embarrassing Charlie?"

His deflection would get him nowhere, "You know exactly what I mean. Giving love a helping hand."

He waved away the praise and busied himself putting his books into his bag, "don't know what came over me. I don't interfere in the lives of colleagues, or get involved in any of that personal nonsense. I'd just had my fill of seeing them make puppy-dog eyes at one another."

"No."

"No?"

"No, I don't believe you. It was a nice thing to do, that's why you did it. I don't accept that annoyance compelled you to do it. You are a good person and you did a good thing." Anthony carried on busying himself with his books and files, but Edith caught the smile playing on his lips and the croak he cleared from his throat.

When he had finished packing he came around to the front of his desk and leaned on the heavy wood right beside where she sat, "we can no longer dance around the issue Edith."

She looked across his hips, up his torso, to his face and wondered what issue they were dancing around. She was dancing around several, her thoroughly inappropriate and unrequited attraction to him being top of the list, "w-what do you mean?"

"The portrait."

_Idiot_. "Oh, right, yes, that."

He kicked out his legs and pulled himself up to sit on the desk in front of her, suddenly a schoolboy with a schoolboy smile, "So? Can you do it do you think? I've noticed your pencil at work." He picked up the ball of pink ribbon and passed it from hand to hand, "of course, you could have been mindlessly doodling. Or sketching some infinitely more interesting subject - Mrs Hughes perhaps –" he paused, "or Gregson."

Edith shook her head slowly and met his eyes. He really had no idea. There might as well be no one else in the court room given the way he, and only he, held her attention, "No, just you. I've done eyes, nose, mouth, shoulders and neck. Today I even tried your ears." His hand reached to one of them as though double-checking he had ears.

"And?"

"I can paint the portrait."

Anthony gifted her a smile like no other, right up into his eyes. It was too much, she was just bones in the chair and her heart beneath her ribs, thumping. She dropped her chin to her chest, breaking his gaze. With a shrug and a laugh, she hedged, "it might be terrible, don't get too excited."

He squeezed her shoulder, "it won't be." Then his hand was gone. Edith looked at the ripples in the cotton fabric where it had been. He stood and put on his coat. She did the same, stashing her pens and papers in her rucksack. He grabbed his bag and they headed to the tube station.

As they strolled across the court driveway, he asked, "so, what's next?"

"I don't know. I told you I've never done this before."

He laughed, "blind leading the blind."

"I suppose we do a proper sitting. The court has terrible light."

"Do you want me to come to you?"

Edith was caught between wanting to see Anthony in her flat, around her things and wanting to see where he lived, to see his life outside the courtroom, "No. I don't think so – we should do it at yours."


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N Thank you, thank you for all the wonderful reviews._

There wasn't much to tidy, but what little there was - Anthony tidied. He did rather more than that, he walked down to Sainsbury's bought a pack of yellow dusters and some Pledge. He lifted the files off the dining room table and allowed the thin mist of sickly, sweet polish to make it appear shiny and new. He made five neat folder towers at the end of the table. He put crisp new sheets on the bed. He'd long since given up ironing so he'd had to buy them from Oxford Street on the way home the previous Friday.

All the effort was for naught, because Edith would have no reason to come into the dining room. She would _certainly_ have no reason to come into the bedroom, although the thought gave him a peculiar and not unpleasant pause. On the off chance she did see these rooms, he didn't want her to think he was a slob surrounded by nothing but his work and months of accumulated detritus. He wanted to be a man with a welcoming, clean flat. And fresh sheets.

The living room she would see. All the surfaces were cleaned. He straightened what few pieces of furniture there were and made a bookshelf of the fireplace. He'd purchased the first six books on the list she'd written for him and he wanted her to see that he was making progress. He was already halfway through _Wolf Hall_, which was placed with nonchalant precision in the middle of the coffee table. He tried, somewhat in vain, to fluff the cushions on the sofa but at the end of the exercise it still retained the dints and hovels of a place he'd fallen asleep far too many times.

Anthony surveyed the effort. It still looked like exactly what it was, temporary accommodation for a temporary situation. Except now it smelt of polish. He opened the sash window facing the street and saw Edith emerging from a taxi. She battled with an easel, a portfolio and a large black trunk. Stumbling over the kerb, she swore, "bugger." Even her cursing was diminutive. Her hair appeared blonde in the bright sunlight and was thrown in gentle waves across her face. She pushed it away.

Warmth spread through Anthony's chest and he chuckled. It was rude to carry on spying, he shouted down, "hello!"

Wide-eyed she looked up, shielding her eyes from the sun. She cast her face back down to the pavement and waved in his direction, "yes, hello." She spoke through gritted teeth, "Didn't see you there." She righted herself and tried to pick up the easel and the trunk.

"Hang on, I'm coming down." He ignored her protests as he swept out of the living room. There was no earthly way she could transport all of that up the stairs. How she'd ever gotten everything into the cab was a mystery.

The sunshine belied the temperature. The chill bit through Anthony's jumper as he opened the front door and practically leapt down the small set of steps to the pavement. Edith leant on the black iron railings, she'd managed to move her paraphernalia away from the centre of the public walkway.

Anthony hopped from one foot to the other, "Jesus it's cold. Let me take these." He picked up the easel and tucked it under his arm and took the handle of the trunk in his other hand. It was heavy, he paused and set it down, "what_, on God's earth,_ is in there?!"

"Supplies." She checked them off with her fingers, "chalks, pencils, oils, watercolours, pastels -" she tilted her head, "oh – felt tips."

"Felt tips? Why would you need felt tips?"

"You might want a felt tip portrait. I don't know. I came prepared." She waved him away, "I'll carry it."

He was quicker and grabbed the handle, his hand brushing hers, "you will not."

"It's fine. It's not 1920, a lady can carry her own bags. It was the easel that caused the problems. I -"

He interrupted, "well perhaps, but no lady of mine is carrying this bag up two flights of steps."

Edith squeezed her lips together as if swallowing a smile. Anthony played the sentence back, a strange and unusual – for him - verbal slip, "that is – you – I - don't laugh! You know what I mean."

"I think so – you're terribly old fashioned."

He took the trunk, rolling his eyes, "I've got it." He nodded towards the front door, "second floor, go on."

Anthony's concentration on the gentle sashay of Edith's hips meant he almost didn't notice that she was heading towards Mrs Patmore's door rather than his own.

"No- no – not that one!" Edith arched an eyebrow at the urgency in his voice, "the one straight ahead of you."

His heart thumped as she let herself into his flat. He told himself it was the two flights of stairs and the heavy box of supplies.

"Living room to the left." She nodded, peering into the kitchen and then the dining room, her lips curving into a small smile of approval. The cleaning had not gone to waste.

"Charming!"

The living room was Anthony's favourite, it was why he'd insisted on this flat over the new builds nearer to the tube station. It was the only space running from the front of the flat all the way to the back. Large picture windows at both ends and two smaller ones on the far wall. Light streamed in, which made the slightly greying walls appear a little closer to their original white. All the original features remained - ornate coving, ceiling roses framing the light fixtures, wooden sashes and the fireplace with its intricate carvings surrounding the year the building was completed, '_1852_'.

He huffed as he deposited the trunk next to the folded easel, "I know, feels like going straight back to the middle of the 19th century."

Edith's slender, pale fingers skimmed the top of the fireplace, flexing to dance across the spines of the books he'd purchased on her recommendation. A small silver watch glinted in the sun. Her wrist was beautiful, like a marble sculpture, with rivers of pale blue dancing through the skin where it met with the fleshy base of her palm.

She turned to face him and frowned, "I don't understand. Where – I mean, it's so –"

"What?"

His head turned to where she was pointing, the lumpy sofa, "that's the same one that's in your office."

"Observant. Yes, they both used to be in the office actually, but I needed a sofa here." He shrugged. The flat had to be furnished in a hurry, but he didn't need to go into all that.

"Your office is so cluttered. But this – " She shook her head, "It's empty. I'm surprised."

Anthony cleared his throat and told a half-truth, "most of my things are at the office." The rest were in Sevenoaks. Furniture, books, photographs – the paraphernalia of life – in the house which, until six months ago, he'd called home, although he'd thought of it less and less by that moniker in recent weeks.

The opportunity was available to explain, to set out the whole background. But the painting was a portrait of him as a professional; it didn't need to be encumbered by personal nonsense. Edith didn't need to know, he would tell her eventually, when the obvious moment presented itself.

"You'll have to do me some pictures. I'd quite like to buy the Eiffel Tower one that you sent."

"It's yours." She walked over to the easel and knelt on the floor beside it, she snapped the wood into position and started the assembly work.

"I'm happy to pay for it."

"This place needs it, and I want you to have it." Her hair fell in disarray about her head and she levered her hand through it, "I hate this thing, it's so stiff." Shifting forwards onto her knees Edith forced the legs of the easel into a standing position. Her pale pink blouse shifted around her neck and the _v_ at the collar pointed towards the enticing promise of soft flesh held by – was that lace? _Stop being such a letch, you old man._

He shook his head and forced his eyes back to her face, where they should be, "You get set up then and I'll do brunch."

Edith cocked an eyebrow, "you're going to cook brunch?"

"I'm not sure what I've done to deserve your skeptical tone. I can rustle up the basics. What would you like? Full English? Poached eggs? Bagels with cream cheese and smoked salmon? Or we could stick with the ubiquitous almond croissants?"

Her smile was beautiful, "that's rather more than the basics! You can poach an egg?" Anthony bowed his head slightly, inordinately delighted that perhaps his rudimentary kitchen skills might have compensated for his unhomely home. "Very impressive. Bagels please – toasted."

Nonchalantly he shrugged his left shoulder, "naturally."

She laughed, "Anthony?" He turned back to her as she slid the easel up to full height, "Then croissants."

"Anything you want." He meant that about much, much more than brunch, but she wouldn't know that.

They ate well. Edith was impressed and he was pleased. Beaming.

After he'd cleared the clutter from breakfast and dumped it in the kitchen sink, where it would likely still be eleven days from now, Anthony settled himself on the window seat, suddenly feeling extremely conspicuous. She was going to look at him, really look. Deep lines in his forehead, slightly sagging cheeks, a jawline fighting a losing battle with gravity, thinning hair. God, if he could have done this at 25, he was a sight to see then. Utter nonsense of course, Anthony never wished himself younger. The signs of age were markers of his experience, his achievements. He was no one at 25, now he was to be a High Court Judge.

He shifted uncomfortably and ran his fingers across his brow. If he could just have a few years back.

"Will this do?" He sat in his customary position, one leg tucked over the other. She was fixing a large sheet of paper to the easel. The nerves were getting the better of him and he filled the silence, "should I be in my suit? Wig and gown? What about the background?" He looked over his shoulder at the terracotta triangles and proud chimney stacks, with the occasional modern glass skylight breaking the Victorian lines. "Perhaps I should draw the blinds?"

Edith stood absolutely still, eyes fixed on the easel, "Edith?" He saw the tremble in her hand and the flush creeping up her neck, "Edith, what's wrong?"

She fisted her hand into the front of her jumper, "I-I don't -". She turned away, covering her eyes.

The dart he made across the room to stand in front of her was instant, she was upset and he couldn't bear the sight. Once he found himself there, looking down at her, he was slightly at a loss. Completely out of practice in the art of offering sympathy and comfort, although he'd managed quite well with this particular woman thus far. Her chest rose and fell heavily and he tried not to look at the enticing skin between her breasts again. Now was not a suitable time for such behaviour, if there ever was a suitable time.

Reluctantly he put his hand on her arm, he could feel heated, dewy skin beneath the cotton. Her head careened up to his face, eyes wide, as if surprised to find him there.

"Take some deep breaths Edith. Deeper than that please." He put his hand on his chest and took several gulps of air to show her. She was a meadow, lavender and peppermint in sepia and pastel tones. Her face was a bird in the middle of it all, sharp cheekbones and proud nose, wide eyes filled with expression. At this precise moment: blind panic.

He ran his hand down her arm, trying to keep his mind on the task at hand and stopped at her fingers. He prized the pencil away from their grip and put it on the mantelpiece. Her breathing steadied.

She whispered, "I'm a mess, sorry."

"Not at all. What set you off?"

She rubbed her eyes, "you did."

"Me?"

"All the talk of outfits and backgrounds. I hadn't thought about any of that. Then came the catastrophisation."

"Catastrophisation?"

She turned around and circled the room, "The fact I hadn't thought about it became I can't believe I didn't think about it. Which became I'm probably not going to be able to do this, which was then I'm definitely not going to be able to do this." She waved her hand about her head, "then I thought, well, if I can't do this, I'll probably never be able to do any painting again, which means I might as well never do anything because without that I'm nothing and nobody."

"So my very innocuous query about whether I should be wearing a suit became –"

"Me being worth nothing."

"Catastrophisation." He wanted to wrap his arms around her and never let go. Kiss her head and whisper sweet comforts, "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"That you have a nut painting your picture, how could you have done?"

He was relieved she would still paint it, that he hadn't scared her off, "you're not a nut. You're grieving." He looked down and found his hand wrapped around hers, thumb tracing the undulations of her knuckles. He let her go, "come on, follow me."

The galley kitchen was spotless. He rifled around in the cupboard and found two mugs. The only two he had which matched one another had accompanied brunch and now lay discarded and dirty in the sink. Of these two one had delicate roses painted across its cream surface. The other had 'Keep Calm and Carry On' across the side in bold white text on a red background; a Christmas present from Mrs Hughes. Edith grinned, "I suppose that one should be mine?"

"That would seem appropriate." Anthony put the kettle on and eschewed the pot in favour of efficiency, the teabag went straight into the mug along with two heaped teaspoons of sugar.

"I don't take sugar."

"I know, but it'll help you feel better."

"You're a doctor now as well as a judge?"

He poured the steaming water into the cups, watching the cloud of taste infuse through the clear liquid, "no, but I've seen enough experts give evidence about anxiety attacks to know that sugar will help, and you polished off all the almond croissants."

The silence of the kitchen was broken by the tinkling of stainless steel on china. Edith took the mug with a halfhearted smile and blew little ripples across its surface.

Anthony was troubled, "You really think that without painting you'd be nothing?" In the short time he'd known her, although painting was what had brought her to his door, they'd talked very little about it. As it turned out she was more, much more, than the extraordinary pictures to which he'd been so attracted.

Drawing her bottom lip between her teeth, she took a sip of tea and settled her gaze at middle distance, "that's probably the catastrophisation talking, but, to a certain extent –" She looked down at her now half empty mug, "this _is_ making me feel better." She continued, "To a certain extent, yes. Painting is my outlet, it's how I express myself, it's the only thing I've ever felt remotely good at. It's my contribution to the world and without it –" She exhaled, "I'm not sure where I'd fit." She drained the rest of the cup, "you probably feel the same about law."

"No." He answered quickly and truthfully. Usually he'd have lied to cover himself.

She tilted her head and frowned, "really?"

Anthony had spent every waking moment working towards his appointment to the High Court, to the detriment of everything else. If he thought about giving it all up tomorrow he felt nothing. Except that Edith wouldn't need to paint his picture. That thought caused a twist in his stomach unlike anything he'd felt in a long time.

"Really. I'd be bored with very little to do all day, but the idea doesn't worry me. It certainly doesn't set off even the remotest inkling of anxiety. I suppose I'm just lucky."

Edith tilted her head with a scowl, "are you?"

She might be the one having panic attacks in the middle of the day but he knew, as did she, who had the best of it. How funny that the 26 year old would have a better sense of self than the 50 something. It wouldn't do to dwell on it. This was the position he was in, this was who he was - he would go to the High Court and Edith would paint the picture, he didn't need to think about what would happen after that or what had gone before. Not today in any event, not yet.

Introspective thoughts swept aside, Anthony moved into action, "right. We need a plan."

Edith rinsed her mug and put it upside down on the draining board, "A plan?"

"Yes. You're right that a portrait is more than me sitting there and you sketching me. We need to think about clothing and background, everything, really." He could feel his voice humming low in his throat as he switched to a persuasive tone. He had a point to make and an idea to state. The barrister within was doing the talking now, "we are supremely intelligent individuals Edith. Here we have something neither of us understand. Of course, you can do the drawing, this we know." He took a beat, "but the rest of it – the question of what the portrait should be and what it involves – we need to do what we always do when we do not understand something –we become teachers, we learn." He looked her straight in the eye, "if we do that, if we learn – I don't think you'll panic anymore."

Edith's fingers fluttered across her mouth which curved into a smile, "you're really very, very good you know. If I'm ever accused of murder will you defend me?"

"I'm a Judge now, remember?" This was a silly counterfactual, of course, she wasn't going to kill anyone, or commit any sort of crime, but somehow it seemed important to continue, "But I'd give it all up to go back to the Bar and keep you from serving 15 to life." She laughed, Anthony was inordinately pleased, "so is that a yes then?"

"To letting you defend me when I kill –" she shrugged and chuckled, " - Mary, probably?"

He nodded, "That, and the portrait lessons."

"Oh – yes to those as well. Although you shouldn't have to help, I can do it all on my own."

No, no, that wasn't the idea at all and he already had an idea of the first lesson. An idea that would mean a whole day in her company. He groped for a persuasive point, "Nonsense. This is a collaboration. I need to learn as well. Besides, I already know what we need to do first."

"Oh?"

"A trip back to Cambridge – to see the competition."

She smiled; it went straight through him, to places it absolutely should not have gone.


	8. Chapter 8

"But I don't want to work on Saturday."

Edith bit back a sarcastic retort, "yes, Daisy, I know. No one _wants_ to work on Saturday unless they have to, I'm just asking you to swap with me, I'll do your next Saturday shift."

The slight brunette eyed her with suspicion and more than a little confusion. When Edith had first started working at the cafe she'd thought Daisy was simple - stupid, actually. Time had taught her that it wasn't stupidity but a complete lack of social awareness. So Edith's request for a favour, to be paid in kind, seemed to be sailing right over Daisy's head.

"But it's your day to work."

"I know." Edith tried to relax her jaw, "but something has come up and I'm taking a trip, it couldn't be avoided."

It absolutely could be avoided. She could text Anthony this very second and tell him she couldn't get cover at work. She could take herself up to Cambridge, do the research for the portrait on her own. She very much doubted that Anthony had taken his clients to the library with him when he had to do some legal study. But then again he probably never grappled with an acute attraction to any of his clients. Edith felt a child-like excitement at the prospect of spending the day in Cambridge with him. She'd have to quit if Daisy didn't agree.

"A favour Daisy, I'm asking you a favour. Please?"

Her voice still laced with suspicion she agreed.

"Get off, what are you doing?!" Daisy pushed her way out of Edith's bear hug and frowned before busying herself at the bar.

Practically skipping to the staff room Edith text Anthony, "_All sorted for Cambridge._"

The response was immediate (only a teenager would care about something like that, but, in spite if herself, she did care, she positively beamed at the empty room), "_Fantastic. See you at mine, 9am._"

"What has you smiling like the Cheshire cat?"

Thomas leaned in the doorway. When they'd first met he'd put Edith in mind of the villain in a silent movie. Spindly limbs, menacing features, sardonic expressions. Creepy, basically. He evoked it now, black trousers, black jacket, slicked black hair, pale, almost translucent skin and narrowed eyes focused directly on her. Where once she had recoiled, Edith saw it now for what it was: armour against the world. Thomas hadn't found it easy to be gay in a northern mining village.

They met when Edith joined the writing staff on a small indie art magazine just after she moved to London. She reviewed art shows. Thomas was appalled that they were letting someone without an art qualification do such an important job. He'd been disdainful, sarcastic and critical from the outset. Then she'd reviewed one of his shows in glowing terms. He carried on jibing, naturally, that was part of the armour too, but somehow she became a 'friend' and then a 'good friend' and then a 'best friend'.

When they rowed about his demeanour and his constant sniping Thomas pointed out that he needed those characteristics to survive. He was the first one to call her out: she had her own means of keeping the outside world away. Almost exactly the opposite to him, she shrunk away. Browns and greys and pale pinks with timid smiles and small conversation. Perhaps that was why they got on so well; he was outrageous where she was quiet and she was thoughtful where he was inconsiderate. They levelled one another out.

"Jesus, Thomas, you scared me. How did you get down here?"

"The stairs."

"Ha-bloody-ha. I meant past Daisy."

"Yes, because it takes a crack criminal mastermind to get past Daisy."

Edith rolled up her apron and transferred that night's tips into her purse, "why are you here?"

He sighed, "to walk you home. It's dark."

"Because no woman should be on London's mean streets –" she feigned a wide-eyed, frightened expression and gasped, "after dark."

"I'm being a gentleman, I was passing the restaurant and thought you might appreciate it. Shoot me why don't you? Anyway –" He tapped his foot dramatically, "stop avoiding the original question."

"Original question?"

He stepped into her personal space and loomed over her with a tone so suspicious it was almost comic, "Cheshire cat smile – explain."

"I was chosen to paint that portrait I told you about." That wasn't untrue, albeit the smile was more a result of the subject of the portrait than the portrait itself.

"Holy shit." The words fell from his mouth slowly as his jaw dropped. No one had faith in her abilities, except Anthony, apparently. She didn't know whether the thought made her happy or sad.

They walked up the stairs, "no need to be _so_ surprised."

Thomas grabbed her hand outside the restaurant, "hey, that's not funny. I'm not surprised, you're talented and I'm proud of you." He pulled her into a hug. They never hugged. His spindly limbs twisted awkwardly around her and her face mashed into his chest. It was over quickly. He cleared his throat, "let's not do that again."

"Never ever." Edith smiled.

"I thought it might have been about a boy."

"A boy?"

"Yes - your Cheshire Cat smile. Goofy. It seems like the sort that might be a product of the opposite sex. I should know I've -"

He stopped dead mid-sentence and emitted what could only be described as a 'gay gasp'. He pointed in her direction, wagging the finger up and down. She'd betrayed herself, as she always did. Pale skin gave way to hues of pink. Treacherous blushes.

Thomas accused, "there _is_ a boy."

Brixton's crowded pavements forced them apart. Banished smokers, idle drunks and the odd pavement shisha bar protected her from having to have the conversation. But the walk home was a good twenty minutes and Thomas was nothing if not persistent. Sure enough as they found each other again he looped his arm through hers and hissed in her ear, "stop running away and give me details. Dirty details. I haven't had sex in weeks."

Trying and failing to pull her arm away Edith shook her head, "there's been no sex. This is me we're talking about."

When Edith had first told Thomas about her derisory sexual experiences he'd actually doubled over laughing, gasping for air at how pathetic it all was. The second year at Cambridge had seen her finally rid of the pesky virginity. She'd sat next to Steve in her sixteenth century witchcraft lectures. Steve was nice which seemed to be a sufficient qualification to be her boyfriend. They had six months of clumsy, completely unsatisfactory sex. She wasn't sure if she broke up with him or if it had been the other way round, but it ended, without fireworks, rather like it had started, and gone on. After Magdalene May Ball Edith made her first and last attempt at a one-night stand. She wasn't sure what resulted even counted as sex. It was so brief it almost seemed never to have happened. She'd had left Cambridge with the sense that perhaps sex wasn't for her. There had been dates since then, possibilities since then, but no one had come close to enticing her back into a remotely intimate situation. Until Anthony. She'd wanted to jump Anthony since the first time she set eyes on him.

"Who is he then?"

It was so cliché, she mumbled the answer, "the judge."

"Who?"

Edith pushed her forehead into his shoulder and looked away with a laugh, "Oh, I'm ridiculous. The judge, it's the judge I'm painting."

"Course it is!"

She threw her arm up in the air, "I know – I know. I wait years to be attracted to someone and it's literally the most inappropriate person possible."

He pulled them across the road between distant beaming headlights and dimming red brake lights, "hang on, did you say - attracted?"

They probably heard Edith's whimsical sigh in Kennington, "yes. He is the single most attractive man I've ever seen."

"After me."

She nodded at Thomas with a serious frown, "goes without saying." The sentimental declarations continued apace, "he's tall, with beautiful hair and his eyes – God, they're blue. His voice is sort of breathless, except when he wants something or he's trying to persuade – being judicial. Then it drops lower and goes straight through me, like I'm butter and he's a knife. That was cheesy – but that's exactly how I feel, he could make me do anything when he speaks that way. And he likes my paintings, really likes them. Oh, and I made him a list of books which he hadn't read and he's actually reading them. I put _Twilight_ on it, just to see how far I could push him. Thomas, he read it, he actually read it! Then he spent an entire lunch ranting about young women and relationship perceptions if 'Bella and Edward' were seen as the norm." Suddenly horribly self-conscious she stopped talking and shrugged, "I like him."

"Christ Ede, apparently."

"Nothing is happening. Nothing will happen." She spoke the last sentence to herself, dousing her optimism was a necessary evil; otherwise disappointment would overwhelm her when the inevitable happened, or didn't happen.

"He sounds perfect."

"He's not. In a lot of ways, he's not. He's twice my age and wedded to his work like no one I've ever met. For him the last twenty years have just been the law. I'm a novelty – a diversion. He'll be done with me when the portrait is painted and he's a High Court Judge and concentrating on the next chapter of his professional life." _Where on earth did that come from?_ She knew the answer though. It had been on her mind ever since they'd first met. The little voice in the corner, quiet but constant, it had been easy to ignore but it kept whispering nonetheless – _this man cannot let anything new in; you are new and you will not get in_.

Thomas didn't seem to notice the problem, "still sounds perfect, even if it's temporary, at least you'll finally, _finally_ get some."

She thumped him on the shoulder, "I'm not going to –" she air quoted with an eye roll, " - '_get some_' – he's not remotely interested in me in that way." Actually, now she thought about it, there was much about Anthony which reminded her of how she had been. Was he even interested in sex? She thought of all the times he'd touched her, brief moments of contact, which charged her with more sensation than she'd ever experienced. He seemed completely unaffected. When he'd nursed her through her anxiety attack without any judgment, with only affection and kindness, she could have pledged herself to him for all eternity. For him, it was routine, as though she was some witness in a case, just another person with another problem.

All of those thoughts were redundant any way. Her crush was unreciprocated. No, she wasn't going to 'get some', perhaps she'd get a friend for a while. She should just enjoy the sensation whilst she had it; a crush was nice, another friend was good.

She thought about Saturday and Cambridge and she hoped her Friday shift would go quickly. The voice and any thoughts about Anthony's accessibility and, certainly about his sexuality or lack there of, were crowded out by excited anticipation and Thomas's gentle mocking about how a fifty year old was far more her speed than a twenty year old.

Friday was mercifully quick. She woke up at silly o'clock on Saturday and tried to arrange her hair into some semblance of order. She retrieved her battered make up bag from a cupboard in the corner of the room and briefly considered putting on some blush and mascara. She stopped herself, she never wore make up. She hadn't worn any in front of Anthony so far, why would she start now? She repeated a mantra: this is not a date. This is not even approaching a date.

The bag was returned to the cupboard and she shrugged at her plain face in the mirror, waves of mousey not-blonde, not-brown hair framed her face. It had been a long time since she'd wished for Mary's bone structure or Sybil's eyes. She wasn't going to start now. She felt guilty for even allowing the thought in – Sybil was dead, she lived. Today, of all days, she planned on living, not spending her time wishing to change things she could not.

She wrapped up warm. Big navy winter coat, grey woollen hat. Leather boots. The weather in London was cold, it would drop at least two degrees in Cambridge and there was the threat of snow. No one ever thought of March as a cold month, but it was, this one in particular. That said, it was warm inside her flat and positively boiling inside the factory once she got downstairs. She had gone beetroot red and a sheen of sweat caused a slight frizz at the edges of her hair.

"You're a hot mess Crawley."

"Yes, quite literally, thank you. Do you never switch these bloody machines off?"

Thomas shrugged. He wasn't wearing a shirt, his muscles were so defined that they were almost frightening, "urgent print run."

"Well, I'm off. I'll see you tonight."

"Or not." He gave her a salacious wink. She was grateful for the heat in the building then, it hid her blushes. He called out as she slid open the door to the flat, "seriously Ede, have fun, don't think too much, just have fun. You seem happy."

Biting the inside of her cheek, she nodded. She was happy. Happy and excited. Usually she would overthink it, analyse it to death until she'd taken out her phone and text an apology and an excuse. But for the first time in a long time she felt normal and she wasn't going to sabotage herself.

One tube change and a short walk and she was at Anthony's front door buzzing his flat, utterly incandescent at the prospect of the day ahead.


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N Sorry for the delay in posting. Work on top of me again, but I'm back above water now and the next three chapters are pretty much done. Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to review, it's kept me going._

Through the crackle of the intercom Anthony sounded harried, "on my way down." She heard a thud and the start of a swear word, "shi-" before he released the button. Managing six foot (plus) of limbs and extremities could be a burden sometimes, or so she imagined.

Edith leant against the wrought iron rail and took a languid look up and down Anthony's street. Stark stucco frontages, brilliant white, except in one case a bright lemon and in another, sky blue. Cars butted the pavements with dull grey streetlights and bus stops, the tiresome trappings of modernity. She could see past it, all the way to the street in its hey-day. Women in bustles, men in top hats.

"Penny for them?" He was standing beside her.

"I love your road."

"Me too. We looked at new build apartments nearer the tube, but this place took my breath away. Not practical, of course, but beautiful. The moment I turned that corner –" he pointed to where the side road met the high street, "I knew with an absolute single-mindedness that I had to have whatever was for sale on this street." He clucked in the back of his throat and cast his eyebrows up to his hairline.

"What?"

"Not unlike how I felt when I saw your pictures. I had to have you." Had to have her. _Anthony having her. Against this rail._ Edith flushed. He shook his head and his lips curled into that particular smile which she was starting to think was just for her, "I meant, to paint the picture."

She nodded too vociferously and turned her gaze away, "yes, I know what you meant. Thank you, that's an enormous compliment and, as ever, I'm not sure I will live up to such promise."

"You will."

He'd had faith in her since their first meeting, borne out of nothing. It was deeply attractive.

"What is that?" He was holding a large wicker container which looked just like –

"A picnic basket."

"For?"

He laughed, "a picnic of course."

She followed him down the small set of stairs, "Anthony, it is three degrees." Far too cold for a picnic, but then again, he'd made a picnic for her, and him, for them. Suddenly it seemed like the greatest idea she'd ever heard, why wasn't everyone eating picnics in March, it made perfect sense.

"I expected better of you Edith." He arrived at a battered, navy blue Jaguar and fumbled with the keys and the basket, "we are children of The North. This weather is practically tropical." The frost caused the boot to stick and he couldn't manage it with one hand.

Edith laughed and motioned him away, "move over." With a jerk she got it open shaking her head at the sparkling ice crystals lining the rubber band around the rim. She traced it with a gloved finger and held the sheen of ice up to her face for closer scrutiny, "oh yes, we're basically in Barbados."

"Fine. We'll go to a restaurant then."

"No!" It was a slight shout, a couple walking past them glanced over with quizzical faces. She cleared her throat and dropped the register, "no. A picnic sounds lovely."

"I thought we could go to Newnham?" He slammed the boot and followed her round the side of the car. Of course he was going to open her door for her, "I've never been. You can sit on the grass can't you?"

"I really do think it's too cold to sit on the grass, but there are benches and you have to walk across the grass to get to them."

"Excellent." She had half a leg in the car, "hang on."

"What?"

"Where's your sketch pad?"

Instinctively Edith's eyes went to her small leather bag, slung across her body, empty, except for her purse and phone. There had been a time when she couldn't leave the house without a large satchel, the only thing big enough for her heavy-duty paper and selection of pencils. Then Sybil died and the art shop paper became WH Smith's own, ten pencils became five and then two and then she realised there was no need for any of it and the bag might as well go too.

"I assumed I wouldn't be sketching you today, so I –"

She stopped. His fingers closed around her wrist and he pulled her back towards him on the pavement. Then they were gone.

"Edith, we are going to one of the most beautiful cities in the world. You told me that you paint places and things, where better to do that than Cambridge?"

She had told him that when they first met, using those exact words, when confronted with the baffling revelation that he had chosen her to do the painting.

"I was – I am, but I can't –" There were no places and things any more. Apparently now she was just a painter of Anthony.

"You're doing all right with my portrait. You never know, inspiration might strike and the rest will start to come back as well, you cannot possibly go without the means of capturing a scene if the mood takes you."

"It'll take me an hour to get back to Brixton and we're supposed to –"

"Come on." He set off marching up the road and she skipped to catch up. "There's an art supply shop on the High Street, it'll only take fifteen minutes or so to get what you need and then we can be off."

It took more like an hour. Anthony was fascinated by the choice available. He pointed out all the different grades of paper, colours, textures. He asked Edith if she wanted chalks or paints or pens or pencils. It was a sweet shop of treats for an artist and he wanted her to have all of it. She nearly got carried away and let him buy everything for her, but, in the end, a small pad with pencils was all that was required. Anthony insisted on paying.

It occurred to Edith that Anthony was the first boy she'd bought back to Newnham who she really liked. Ironic that it should happen six years after graduation.

He trailed her into the Porter's Lodge with the same reluctant body language that most men exhibited on entering an all women's college. Edith rolled her eyes at him, "come on, the feminists won't bite, I promise."

His eyes widened, "you mean they _don't_ bite."

She chuckled, "oh, they definitely bite, they just show restraint most of the time."

"Really? How intriguing." He sounded almost – it couldn't be – flirtatious. She looked back and he arched an eyebrow.

The main entrance to Newnham was through the College's newer additions. Most of Cambridge kept their 1960s and 1970s' follies hidden from view, discoverable only through thick foliage or around the bend of a river no one ever punted. Newnham had put theirs front and centre. But it made the reveal of the extraordinary Champneys buildings all the more remarkable. Beautiful red brick and ornate, bright white windows. An idyllic architectural paradise set in rambling wilderness gardens hidden from view behind mid-century monotony.

Anthony was as surprised as most, "Blimey, that's unexpected isn't it?"

"I know, it's beautiful. In my final year I had that room up there." She pointed to one of the largest bay windows in the centre of Sidgwick, "and I'd just sit on my window seat and look out on the grounds and think how lucky I was to be in a place like this."

"You grew up in a place like this."

She led them to a bench by the sunken garden in the centre of the grounds, "no, Downton is nothing like this, it's all gothic horror and spikey turrets. This –" she stretched her arms out, "isn't designed to intimidate, it's designed to welcome, to invite. It's warm and affectionate. Nothing like Downton."

"Also, Mary wasn't here."

They sat on the bench and Edith shrugged, "alright, perhaps I'm imposing a few of my sibling issues onto Downton. Even without that though – Newnham is better." She nodded decisively.

Disappointingly Anthony shuffled away from her and put the picnic basket in between them. He begun to unpack a few items and poured tea from a thermos, "so, tell me, what were you like at Cambridge?"

Edith looked into her plastic mug and let the steam warm up her cold nose, "quiet, bookish, happy. For the first time in my whole life, I was happy."

"For the first time?" He spoke softly.

"I suppose I must have been happy as a child. But coming to Cambridge took me away from parents who didn't seem to care about me, other than to point out all the ways I wasn't coming up to scratch, Mary and her spite." There was a flutter of guilt as she spoke the next words, "and Sybil and her perfection." She took a sip of the drink, "this was the first place I could be myself."

He handed her a few grapes and she was grateful that her mouth was occupied; otherwise she'd be compelled to tell him even more revealing truths. She squashed one between her teeth and chewed.

"Why should you escape this introspective path? What were you like at Cambridge, Anthony?"

"I was –" He unwrapped the end of a tin foil package, revealing a beautifully browned sausage roll, and handed it to her, "studious."

Edith snorted, "you'll have to imagine my surprise." The aroma from the food was delicious, "were you happy?"

"I think I was. Not for the first time, mind you - I had no siblings –" his eyes flashed in her direction, "But yes, the world was full of possibilities." He shook his head, "this feels like a maudlin topic somehow." He eyed her sausage roll, "eat your lunch."

The explosion of flavour on Edith's palette was remarkable. She looked down at the unassuming object, some clever person had put caramelised onion between the meat and the pastry.

"Where did you get this?"

He looked a little sheepish and answered as she went for another bite, " as a matter of fact, I made it."

Is there anything more alluring than a woman who sprays pastry shards out of her mouth, down her chin and into her lap? Edith flushed beetroot red and Anthony laughed, handing her a paper napkin with a mocking eyebrow arch.

Edith cleared her throat, "you made this?"

"You sound so shocked! I don't know where you developed the view that I am some sort of unreconstructed, Neanderthal male."

She chewed and swallowed, wide eyed and worried that such a simple question could be taken as a comment on how she perceived his whole personality. "I don't have that view. But, well, I mean – you don't even own matching crockery. Are you telling me you have baking trays, mixing bowl, wooden spoon –" she tapped each finger and she remembered the items which might be required to make pastry, "oh – a rolling pin?"

He had polished his lunch off in double quick time, "alright I confess –"

"Ha – I knew it!"

"Hang on, let me finish. Mrs Patmore leant me the use of her kitchen and her expertise – I needed a refresher."

Edith balled up her tin foil and narrowed her eyes at him, "A refresher?"

"Yes. That's all. I can cook - my mother taught me. She didn't want me going in to the world just being able to study and play cricket. I needed to be able to take care of myself -" he cleared his throat, "- and any family I might have. In her book that meant more than getting a well-paid job, I needed to be able to rustle up the essentials. She had quite a wide view of what was essential – puff pastry absolutely topped the list." He spoke quietly by the end of the speech and looked intently into the distance.

Edith was no cook, but she'd watched enough of the endless parade of cookery shows on television to know that puff pastry was best if left for twenty-four hours. He'd probably been planning this since Thursday at least. Her heart fluttered.

"Is she-" Edith didn't know how to ask the question, she hadn't lost a parent and he seemed terribly sad all of a sudden. 

"Gone?" He nodded solemnly, "yes." He took two more silver parcels from the basket and Edith wondered what more there could be, "she could have been a chef I suspect. She was extraordinarily good at cooking."

Delicious looking chocolate cake emerged from the wrapping. Anthony topped up her tea. The icing had been piped on with a bag; it rose and fell in perfect little mountains.

"You made this as well?"

He handed her a fork, "Yes."

They ate the cake in silence. She supposed she couldn't be objective about it. Even if he'd burnt the cake and flavoured it with mustard she suspected it would have been the best thing she'd ever eaten, or would ever eat.

"Your Mother taught you well. I don't think anything I can say about this cake will do it justice."

"Thank you. I thought about being a chef for a while."

"Really?"

He sighed, "no, not really. My father wanted me to be a barrister, so I was always going to be a barrister. I valued the things my Mother taught me – cookery, photography, creative writing - much less than the only ambition my Father ever had for me. Why is that do you think?"

He ran his hand through his hair, ribbons drifted through his fingers and landed in disarray about his head.

"Are you actually asking?"

His eyes held hers for an age and then he looked away and shook his head, "no. It's a pointless question. The answer changes nothing."

Edith wanted to say that the answer might change everything. She suspected he knew that, she suspected that was exactly why he didn't want the answer. He was afraid of change. And she was falling for him. She had fallen. Before even the home baking, she had fallen. This was perilous.

He stared intently at the building in front of him and didn't face her as he asked, "Do you think we would have been friends if we'd been at Cambridge together?"

Edith laughed, "well, given that Mary was doing law and Matthew too – and my father had studied it and Sybil wanted to study it, I'd pretty much sworn off lawyers at that point."

He looked at her and wasn't smiling; it was a serious question, which struck her as odd, "sorry, I – yes. I mean, we're friends now aren't we? So it stands to reason –" she trailed off.

Why was she nervous about this line of conversation?

He nodded with a scowl, his voice was quiet but firm, "Yes, I suppose we are friends now. Friends are good." He shook his head then and was silent.

Was she relieved? Suddenly friend was a terrible word. The absolute worst. Comrade, chum, associate, ally: dreadful, all of them. She was Knightley with no chance of ever succeeding. She could think of nothing to say to make herself feel better, to bring them back to where they had been before they decided that they were friends, only friends.

"Right." He stood up and dusted the cake crumbs from his trousers. "Onwards, Edith – you can put it off no longer with meditative conversation and distracting tours of forbidden women's colleges – we must go to John's and see our rivals." He nodded towards the exit of the Porter's Lodge. The crooked smile danced off his lips and twirled into her heart, she relaxed, all was well.

The walk to John's snaked through Cambridge's prettiest streets. They swapped mathematical bridge myths and stories of life and death on the punts. Edith dragged him to Fitzbillies, saved from bankruptcy and newly refurbished, to get a box of Chelsea Buns. She had no room for any more food but she'd be thankful for them when she returned to Brixton that evening. They stopped in front of the Corpus Clock and argued about its relative merits. Edith thought it interesting and provoking, Anthony declared it ugly and indulgent. Neither could actually tell the time by looking at it, which, they agreed, made it pretty useless as a clock.

They walked in silence as they approached the unassuming entrance to John's library. Edith's stomach flipped at what awaited her, her neck ached and a lump rose in her throat, the panic lay in wait, ready to strike.

Term had ended, but a smattering of students remained, pouring over books, rustling pages, rattling bags, stifling coughs. They were surely being deafened by the sound of Edith's heavy breathing, which reached a peak when she caught glimpses of pale faces and bright red robes.

Anthony whispered, "they're just past these last shelves."

They emerged from the stacks and she was faced with a long wall of male faces - she spotted a solitary woman a couple of pictures from where she stood. All wore red robes with white fur collars and long, shoulder-length white curled wigs. And bands. Edith hated bands, superfluous, pointless fabric.

"They're all in robes."

Anthony nodded, "yes, red robes – Judges' wear red in the High Court."

"I know, that's why you call it 'taking red'. I just –" The lump rose a little higher, and talking became a task to be accomplished, rather than a simple every day action. She shook her head.

He tugged on her hand and she looked into his concerned eyes. It was an instant medicine, his touch.

"What is it?"

"I don't really know what the picture will look like, but –" she breathed deeply and he took his hand away from hers, she was bereft but ploughed on, "I don't see you in robes."

He nodded, "alright. Why not?"

"I don't know." That was a stupid answer and she raised her hand to stop him from interjecting, "The portrait should be a reflection of you and, when I think of you - " She flushed a little and looked to the pictures rather than at him, "I don't think of you in robes, but, as you are now, casual – normal. To me, you're more than some judicial clone."

"I am?" It seemed like a question but he answered it with a nod and a smirk, "I am. Good then."

"What does that mean?"

"Then I won't be in robes."

"But they're all in robes." She gestured at the wall of faces.

He leaned down to her ear and his breath glanced across the side of her neck, "they're all boring. I want to be exactly as you see me. I trust you."

She tilted her head to look at him, he was just inches away, his eyes intent on hers. The universe narrowed to the charged air between them. There was nothing else, at all, except the single thought that she could lean forward and catch his lips.

A shrill voice cracked out across the silence and the universe flooded back, "excuse me? Can you take this outside now? Some of us are trying to study."


	10. Chapter 10

_I want to be exactly as you see me._

What the hell had he meant by that? Was he talking about the portrait? He was, but he wasn't. He didn't know.

Everything he thought crowded in Anthony's brain, which seemed somehow too small to contain it all, to fathom what was happening to him. Sublime confusion.

She smelt so good and her fingers felt so good. And she thought of him and when she did he wasn't wearing robes. To her, he wasn't a judicial clone.

The needles of cold in the air were a welcome relief. He'd come extremely close to kissing her, the heat on his skin still lingered.

Edith pulled her coat tighter around her and danced on the balls of her feet, "I thought I'd feel ten times worse having seen the other pictures, but I don't. Thank you for making me come here and talking me down off a the ledge when we were inside."

"I didn't make you come here."

"You did. You fed me and joked with me and walked me through Cambridge distracting me with the sights and sounds. Like a blindfolded, nervous filly, you got me here and I feel better and I'm grateful."

"You give me all the credit, you deserve some too. You knew you risked an anxiety attack but you went in there anyway."

She smiled at the sky, "I did, didn't I? And a big decision is made." He arched an eyebrow in query, "no robes for you."

He laughed, "Although a nude might be an innovation too far!"

"I-" She looked plainly at him and dissolved into pearls of laughter. A sign of relief, he suspected, that her hard task was over, rather than anything else. Or maybe she found him funny. Or, maybe she found the thought of him in the nude funny. How quickly his thoughts carried him from joy to despair.

They walked over the Bridge of Sighs, "is there anyone you want to see whilst we're here?"

"I thought about it last night actually. I don't think there's anyone left. All my friends are based everywhere but Cambridge and, of the two supervisors I still speak to, one has gone to Yale and the other to St Andrews." She looked wistful, "nothing left here but the memories." They went into first court, "you?"

His eyes glanced up to Len's rooms. The man who'd taught him everything of value about the law and a great many things of value about life. A mentor and a friend. Back then Len's rooms were small with a leaky ceiling, now he looked over first court. Anthony only knew where they were because they were the rooms of the Director of Studies in law, he'd hadn't visited Len since he ascended to the top of the pile at John's or, indeed, the whole University when he took the Regius Professorship.

"There's Leonard Griffin."

"That name is familiar."

"He's the one cutting you the cheque for the portrait." Her eyes sparked with recognition and she nodded. "Head of Law at John's. He was in his first year teaching when I came up, we were close when I was an undergraduate and a little after Cambridge as well."

She balled up her hands and blew a stream of warm air between them, "We should go and see him then, we're here aren't we?"

"I don't - we're not really friends any more. I haven't been as good with it as I should have been."

That was an understatement. Len had made numerous overtures to keep up their friendship through the years. Anthony had seen him at speaking events, judges' evenings at the Inns of Court and alumni events - the networking circuit that every ambitious barrister and well-respected law lecturer travelled. But the casual offers in between; the invitation for a swift half at the Cittie of Yorke, a last minute dinner - he'd even missed the man's last two weddings - all those casual offers had been eschewed.

"You didn't fall out?"

"No, not at all."

"Then we should go and see him. He was your friend once, he still is."

He looked to the windows of the office again and shook his head, "I don't think-"

"Please Anthony? If we don't go up there you'll regret it when we get back to London and –" She fisted her hands together and twinned her fingers into a cage, "I want you to look back on this day and remember only good things."

An unexpectedly persuasive point. He didn't want to think about this day in anything other than glowing terms either. And she was absolutely right that he would regret it because he'd regretted every other lost meeting with Len.

So they marched up the stairs and to the office. To his surprise Anthony was hoping that someone answered. Someone did. Len Griffin, glass in hand, mop of brown hair in disarray. Frowning at first and then smiling two rows of white teeth.

"Good God, the prodigal student returns."

"Hello Len."

The Professor looked down at Anthony's hand and shook his head before enveloping him into a large hug with several hearty pats on the back, "it's good to see you. It's been far too long."

Anthony flushed with embarrassment, it had been too long and that was no one's fault but his own. Why had he let Edith drag him up here to see Len? It made no sense, all those years without really seeing one another but he allowed Edith to encourage a renewal of the connection. But on seeing Len's smile and feeling his warm embrace he was enormously grateful that Edith had ignored his protestations.

Len caught sight of Edith shielded behind Anthony and stood slightly back, "hello there."

"Hello." Edith pushed past Anthony with a scowl and held out her hand.

Len continued, "Ever so sorry. I'm so addled by the return of my old friend here at the hundredth time of asking that I didn't see you there."

"Leonard Griffin, this is Edith Crawley. She's painting the portrait."

"Of course, Ms Crawley." He bowed slightly and held Edith's hand longer than was necessary, "a pleasure." He spoke warmly, flirtatiously and Anthony was suddenly insanely, stupidly jealous. Annoyed with himself for bringing Edith up here. He wanted to hide her behind him, usher her down the stairs, to the car and all the way back to London. Throwing her into the path of a charming, handsome Cambridge fellow, who was also a renowned ladies' man seemed inordinately stupid. He could only come out on the losing end of an inevitable comparison.

Len gestured to the inexplicably long _chaise longue_ running along one side of the room, "sit, both of you." They did, and Edith winked at him as they did. He'd been nervous and she knew it and she was telling him – _see? It's fine_. Had he been jealous of Len a moment ago? He was losing his mind, as if Edith would be taken in by an overt, audacious flirt. As if it was his place to muse about what Edith might and might not be taken in by.

The _chaise_ had followed Len from room to room for his whole career. Anthony bent to Edith's ear, she'd sat close enough that notes of lavender played to his nose, "I used to sit on this seat during supervisions."

She leant back into him, a long line of pale neck flaunting itself in his peripheral vision. There were two beauty spots situated a little below her ear. Just the right location for a kiss, almost a wordless invitation.

Humor laced her voice and she teased, "practically an antique then."

His mind was drawn away from the temptation and abruptly back to their whispered conversation. He knew she was joking, and he laughed but it was hollow. He loathed that she had noticed their age difference, as if by some miracle, she might not have done so. A particularly ridiculous thought given that they were sitting in the rooms of the Regius Professor, who had been a lowly fellow when Anthony was an undergraduate.

There was a pressure on his elbow. Anthony looked down to find Edith's pale fingers curved around it. Looking up to her eyes his brow furrowed. She whispered, "I didn't mean -"

"Will one of you answer me!" Edith turned to face Len and Anthony followed more slowly. Len waved a weighty crystal glass in their direction, the light caught on the precise cuts weaving an intricate pattern on the sides. Anthony wanted to smash it over Len's head for interrupting.

"Drink? I know you will, Strallan, but, Edith?"

"Oh, why not!"

"Good." Len drew out the sound of the vowels. Glasses and amber liquid were distributed.

Anthony laughed at Edith's face as she took a sip. It scrunched up in displeasure and she coughed.

"Not a fan?"

"I don't know what came over me. I've always found this stuff vile."

"It's an acquired taste, I could train you."

Edith guffawed, "train me?!"

Anthony raised his hands in surrender, "only to drink whiskey."

"Damn right." She was exceptionally pretty when she smiled.

Len cleared his throat and looked pointedly at Anthony. He took the glass from Edith and poured the contents on top of what little remained in his own, "Coffee?"

"Probably safer."

Again, leaning far closer than he needed to, Anthony explained, "Len used to give us whiskey during supervisions. Called it 'thinking juice'. We all had terrible habits by the end of Tripos."

The kettle shook as it reached boiling point and the Professor poured Edith's coffee. "Whiskey is the fuel of the English Bar." He handed her the steaming mug, "I mean look at Strallan here, if it wasn't for the whiskey he'd still be a two-bit criminal barrister scraping around for work like everyone else. Instead -" he finished the speech with a dramatic hand gesture in Anthony's direction, "High Court Judge."

Anthony rolled his eyes, "Oh yes, it was all the whiskey's doing. I personally can take no credit." He held the glass in the air and toasted the room, "Rampant alcoholism has made me the man I am today!"

Edith laughed and knocked her shoulder against his. For a brief moment Anthony could have sworn her hand was on his thigh. But then it was gone and he wondered if it had happened at all. He looked at his leg and back up to Len who arched an eyebrow and cleared his throat, "Talking of credit, what about the judgment in R v Brown?"

The seat dipped slightly as Edith scooted back and rested her head on the wall. She shut her eyes.

"I don't think Edith wants to be subjected to a conversation about the merits of sentencing deductions."

"Actually, I was going to use the opportunity to doze."

And doze she did. Sometime around Len's second outburst about the ineffectiveness of prison sentences Edith's head lolled onto Anthony's shoulder. Her hair brushing at his chin. He stopped mid-sentence. To his disappointment, she awoke with a start. He resisted the urge to tap the top of her head and tell her to go back to sleep.

"God, I actually did doze off didn't I?"

Len chuckled, "I thought that was the plan."

"It must have been the whiskey."

The Professor exhaled sharply, "_please_, you barely had half a swig."

"Don't worry Edith, you're not the first person to fall asleep in Len's office and you won't be the last."

"The implication being that my supervisions are boring." He arched a sardonic eyebrow, "How clever and witty you are, Strallan."

Edith stood and Anthony mirrored her. Len remained seated, his eyes flicking between them.

"I'm going to go and sketch."

"Really?"

"I'm well rested, well fed and in one of the most beautiful cities in the world. I'm feeling inspired and I happen to have a sketchpad."

She'd remembered what he said about Cambridge, about inspiration and she was going to give her sketching a go. His cheeks felt warm. Probably the whiskey. The corners of her lips flickered towards her eyes. She turned to Len and held out her hand, "it was lovely to meet you."

"And you. Best of luck trying to capture Strallan's best side, it's a difficult task."

"Hardly." She cleared her throat and headed for the door, "I'll be out on the terrace at the Backs."

"I'll go with you."

She shook her head, "no - stay." She waved him back into the centre of the room, "Catch up some more. Finish that argument about prison. I'm not going far."

With that her figure disappeared behind the door. It rattled in the frame. The blue paint was peeling where the gold handle met the wood.

The clack of the decanter being returned to the desk broke Anthony from his contemplation of the door. He turned back to the room, grey in the dimming light. It was just him and Len, as though thirty years hadn't passed. More liquor was poured and, just as she'd advised, they finished their argument.

And several more whiskeys.

Anthony was disheveled and lounging on the _chaise_ where Edith had sat an hour earlier. He was tipsy. Len handed him another glass. He should stop after this, it was never a good idea to go past a third glass. Or was this already the fourth? He sipped and didn't care. Len sat uncomfortably close to him on the _chaise_ and practically whispered into his ear, "enough shop talk."

Anthony shuffled away, "I feel like we're about to have an intimate moment."

"We are not." Len's words slurred and he gestured at Anthony with his glass. Tsunamis threatened to tip over the edges, "But you are about to tell me about your intimate moments with the delectable Ms Crawley."

"I beg your pardon?!"

Len shuffled towards him again, "Oh, come on. You must have heard that Jane left me? I haven't been with a woman since she went. I need to live vicariously Strallan, so tell me –" He arched and eyebrow and swirled his liquor before taking another gulp, "- how is she?"

It must be the booze talking. Not Len's choice of subject – that was just Len through and through. For all his good points, and he had many, he had a problematic relationship with the opposite sex. Talking about women, thinking about women and being with women was Len's vice. Maud hated him. The feeling was mutual. His flirtatious mannerisms had never worked on her, and worse, she'd taken it for a lack of respect. A sign he would always be more interested in what was under her dress than inside her head, which probably wasn't an altogether inaccurate assessment.

So, Len's pointed question – asking how someone was in bed, expecting an answer with all the lurid details didn't surprise Anthony one jot. But the idea that he thought Edith would want to sleep with him – that she had in fact already done so. No one sober would have made that assumption. She was young and lovely. He was not.

"You're pissed."

"Yes. Tell me Strallan."

"For God's sake Len, I'm not sleeping with her or doing anything else with her – are you _mad_? She's twenty-something with her whole life ahead of her and I'm a crusty, old –" He shook his head in resignation, "_very_ old, judge."

"You're lying."

"I am not lying."

"If there's one thing I know it's men and women. You look at her like the cat that's got the cream." Len stood up and rolled his eyes, "I used to tell you everything about the women I had been with."

"Yes, whether I wanted to know or not." Anthony tried to construct a mental picture of how he looked at Edith. Perfectly properly, he was sure. "I am not withholding information Len. There is _absolutely nothing_ going on between Edith Crawley and I." An extremely salient point occurred to him then, why hadn't he thought of it earlier? "In case you've forgotten, I am married."

Len grunted, "Maud." He poured another drink, "well, as I have proven on numerous occasions, marriage is no bar to relations with other women. In fact, sometimes it's positively an incentive – and I've met Maud."

Defending Maud came instinctively, although it was half-hearted. Anthony shook his head and sounded a mediocre chastisement, "Len, please."

"And, last I heard, she left you again."

Of course he would know that, they had too many acquaintances in common – the brilliant legal scholar, the leading criminal judge and his top criminal barrister wife. These circles were small. Len's matter-of-fact tone, yet the subtle emphasis on _she_, _left_, _you _and _again_ made him feel discomforted about it in a way he hadn't done in some time. At this point it all seemed so familiar that he thought he'd lost the ability to be embarrassed. The third time she'd gone in three years.

When Maud proposed to him, he didn't imagine that she'd be unhappy – the whole situation was her idea after all. But she kept leaving and for longer and longer. The first time for two months, the second for four and this time, it had been nearly six. One day he'd come back from court to an empty house and a note asking him to vacate for a while because she '_needed time to herself_' or variations on the theme.

They bought the London flat two weeks before she left him for the first time. The note suggested he go there. It occurred to him during their second separation that was the reason they'd bought it. She'd pushed for it – a central London investment property – but then let him choose what they bought and delayed renting it out to anyone.

"Yes, well, we're still married and she's shown no signs of wanting to end it permanently."

"Other than leaving you three times?" He bounced off the _chaise_ and took great strides across the room, warming up for an argument - Anthony knew the signs, "anyway, sod her, what about you? You don't honestly want her back?"

The complexity of that question made Anthony's stomach twist in several different directions which did not make a happy resting place for the whiskey. He mentally charted the distance to the nearest rubbish bin.

His answer was pathetic and it sounded pathetic, "she's my wife."

"Well, that answer is absolute bollocks."

Anthony sounded a warning, "_Len_."

"And Edith?"

The weight of the glass was heavy in Anthony's hand and it took all his fortitude not to hurl it at the wall or the fireplace or Len's head, "for the last time, there is nothing going on between Edith and I."

Regarding his former student for a moment the Professor sucked in a breath, "Ah – I am mistaken. You're the cat that wants the cream." He smacked his lips together and clucked at the back of his throat, "So, no sex?"

"None. And your cat metaphor is unhelpful and inaccurate. I do not have or want the cream." Len chuckled and Anthony scowled, "Nothing has happened. Nothing is going on."

He scoffed the words back to him, "nothing going on." Len took the glass from Anthony's hand as if he knew the threat it posed and looked him dead in the eye, "I would say that for an extraordinary clever man, you are exceedingly stupid. You are, in fact, in relation to things like this - Maud is a case in bloody point, but I don't think even you are _that_ stupid – in fact, I know you're not."

Len was, as ever, right. Anthony had spent the day with Edith and it was wonderful. He was excited yesterday waiting for the day to come and the excitement grew again at the prospect of seeing her again after he'd finished with Len. He'd bought art supplies and cooked for her – baked, no less, something he hadn't done in the better part of fifteen years. She'd gone into two handmade jewelry shops on the walk to John's and he'd gone in with her. He'd cooed over earrings and necklaces and imagined her wearing them. _Them, and nothing else at all, just glints of silver on cream skin._

Something was going on, of course it was.

Ignoring his lurching stomach he tried to bat the conclusion away. This was all so juvenile. He was married and a judge. There was no need to think about this. It was moot anyway. Edith had said it – they were friends. He could have a friend. She wouldn't want anything more – he didn't need anything more.

"Len, can we talk about something else? You and Jane – why did she leave you?"

It was easy to push Len off the thorny topic of Anthony's life and onto his own. It poured out of him – the sad tale of how he lost the only woman he'd ever loved.

Anthony listened, although he didn't hear. His whole concentration was tied up with not thinking about Edith.


	11. Chapter 11

She knew Anthony was there, at the end of the terrace walking towards her, somehow, she knew it before she looked up to find it was true. He marched along the raised patio at the back of New Court.

Edith had commandeered herself a bench and sat sketching the visage in the dying light. The rolling green gardens stretched away from John's behind her, they fell into a gentle curve of the Cam and carried across to King's and Trinity on the other side of the water. A classic Cambridge scene. She was sketching in pencil. Or rather, she was trying. She had the river bank and the top of King's chapel but that was the extent of it. It wasn't coming as easily as it once had, before Sybil she could have rattled off four or five sketches in the time she'd been sitting here.

There was a slight stagger to Anthony's walk, she wondered how many whiskeys he'd got through in the hour or so she'd taken to draw a steeple and a curvy line.

He was at her shoulder, "that's good."

"Anthony, there's barely anything there."

"Oh, have some faith Edith! It's not a blank sheet of paper – it's coming back, trust me." He put his hand at the nape of her neck.

She looked up at him and his hand was quickly gone, the ghost of it lingered in the tingling goosebumps, "You did. Shall we grab some dinner?" His eyes were slightly glazed, looking intently at her, "I suspect you need some food, I suppose I'm driving us back?"

"Ah – yes, sorry about that. Len, you know? The whiskey is necessary for the bonding."

"Old friends, I understand. I'm glad you caught up. Come on, let's go to The Cooper Kettle."

"Not yet –" he pointed at the picture, "you're on a roll. I have my latest book somewhere here." He tapped absentmindedly at the myriad pockets of his coat and pulled out _Never Let Me Go_. His eyes widened and he pointed again, "go on, keep going." He sat himself on the bench, pulling up each leg of his trousers and folding one leg to sit atop the other. His limbs were angles and corners, like some piece of modern architecture. It took all Edith's willpower to return her eyes to the other scenery.

There was quiet then, the scratching of her pencil, the sharp rustle of his pages and their breathing punctuating the atmosphere.

Before long great flakes of snow filled the sky and floated to the ground in front of them. The terrace was covered by the first floor of the library so the picture was spared the snow's beautiful, destructive influence. The scene was all light. The dimming, dying light of the day; the glow of student room windows and street lamps and the snow, reflecting it all, bright white chinks, drifting like feathers. The sights were obscured and yet, made more brilliant. Kings, Trinity, Johns, in and out of focus. Edith hoped she would remember it when she had her pastels; it could be special, if she managed to get it from her head to the paper. She tried for Trinity Bridge, she sketched an outline, it looked amateur.

Without warning there was wool behind her neck and then being guided around the front in a loop. Heavy blue wool, thick beneath her chin. The fabric was warm. She looked up at Anthony standing beside her. He shook his head, "I can't believe you didn't bring a scarf."

"I-" God, it smelt good – whiskey and sandalwood - did he smell this good? Is this what it would be like to bury her nose in the space between his neck and chin? She licked her lips, "I bought a hat." He sat down again, "what about you? Won't you be cold?" _Not that I will ever want to return this scarf to you_.

He chuckled, "I can just –". He stopped and shook his head, "no. The whiskey is doing its job, I'm warm enough." He gestured at the pencil, "Keep going a bit, then we'll eat."

If it was possible Cambridge was even more beautiful with Anthony's scent at her nose.

Whilst she was managing a passable second draft of the bridge, his soft voice broke the relative quiet. He spoke as if he hoped no one would hear him, "Why is it that you can do me?"

Pencil paused; she slowly turned to look at him. He remained intent on the book, turning a page, apparently still absorbed, "I'm sorry?"

His eyes flicked to hers, "you haven't had the same problems drawing me as you do other things, why is that do you think?"

She'd asked herself the question before and found an answer. It was entirely too personal an answer to give him. But the blue eyes were looking now, and she had developed a habit of speaking the truth to him. He'd told her about his mother, perhaps he had the inclination too, and would understand.

"Sybil was the only person in my whole family who believed in my painting. She asked me for drawings when we were growing up and came to my first gallery show in the Old Labs at Newnham. My very first commission – the black dog that I sent you the photo of?" He nodded and she continued, "that was for some partner at a law firm she knew– his beloved retriever died and he wanted him immortalized on canvass. I sent her sketches whilst she was abroad. When she was eight months pregnant she came to my first show in London, despite the fact that her ankles were the size of tree trunks and she needed to pee eighteen times an hour. She simply wouldn't think of missing it. Then she was gone."

She paused, realizing that she hadn't welled up or choked away tears, it was easier to talk about Sybil now, or perhaps it was just easier to talk to Anthony.

"Anyway, you believe in my painting too. I don't know why, but you do and you want me to paint you." She shrugged and bit her bottom lip, "I like to think that one day I'll be able to paint under my own steam, but, for now, it helps to have someone encouraging me." Perhaps that didn't explain why she could only paint images of him specifically, but it was the best she could do. "That probably doesn't make any sense to you."

"It does. Everyone needs a champion, Edith. A little encouragement from time to time, particularly when they are stepping outside of what is normally expected of them." He laughed, somewhat ruefully, "not that I'd know, I am exactly what everyone expected."

She nearly told him that he was not what she had expected. He was thoroughly a Judge and utterly set in his ways, yet still a complete surprise. Handsome too. And charming. And, as the scarf about her neck reminded her, he smelt delicious.

They exchanged small private smiles across the expanse of the bench.

The scrutiny was too much, she was bones and butterflies. Folding away her drawing, she put the pencils back into her bag, "dinner?"

He nodded keenly, "As long as you're sure you've finished sketching?"

They walked side by side through John's and to King's Parade, parting for passing bikes and pedestrians and coming back together, bumping shoulders and pulling away, trying to maintain a distance. Together but apart.

Edith saw the world in colour, or, more specifically, she saw light in colour. The dapple of sun through the trees was lilac, or green, sometimes it was even yellow, and moonlight could be cerise and red and navy. So it was no surprise to her that the thick snow blanketing the windscreen as she and Anthony crawled along the M11 back to London seemed blue. It was only when she was waved to the side of the road by the police officer that she knew the blue wasn't her own imagination but the flashing light of a silent siren.

"Good evening ma'am." The officer dipped his chin further when he noticed Anthony in the passenger seat, "sir."

"What's the problem officer?"

"Fatality up ahead, we've shut the road. The service station is open, there's a Holiday Inn. You could turn back and try the A14, but in this weather –"

Anthony interjected, "absolutely not."

Thomas would think all his predictions had come true, she wouldn't return until morning, undoubtedly to a litany of suggestive sarcasm.

They stocked up on supplies at the service station. The shop catering to staycationers on their way to Cambridge and the Norfolk coast was particularly useful. Cheap underwear, pajamas and – _thank heaven _– toothbrush and toothpaste. Facing Anthony in the morning wearing yesterday's clothes with unruly bed hair _and_ bad breath was more than she could contemplate, particularly on a day when she'd allowed herself to believe he might see her as more than just the woman painting his portrait. Even if the 'more' was just as a friend.

_Friend_. As she followed him into the hotel lobby and heard him ask for two rooms she hated the word again.

She looked at the battered, bulk-bought furniture and buried her nose into Anthony's scarf, which was losing his scent and gaining her own. She cursed herself for wearing perfume. This was a poor way to end an excellent day.

He cleared his throat behind her, "Edith?"

"Yes?"

His cheeks were pink.

"Bad news, I'm afraid. They've only got one room left." He dangled the key in front of her, as though that proved the fact.

The metal was dull, but glinted nonetheless. Her heart skipped a little and she willed herself to be calm. The day was not over.

"Oh, ok." They stood there stupidly, the key hanging from his index finger, like a checkered flag to be waved, or a white one.

She slid the metal ring down and off the end, examining its surface intently.

"Room 45. I think that's this way."

She was able to get to the right place, get the key in the lock and open the door, it was a miracle.

A hotel room, with Anthony. She felt a fit of the giggles coming on. Her hand went to her mouth at seeing the room. A double bed, a desk and an office chair in the corner. No sofa. No day bed.

His shoulder brushed past hers and he seemed to be considering the situation, "I'll sleep on the floor, or maybe –" he put his hand to the office chair, checking how hard it was, "the chair might work."

Her voice was a pitch higher than normal, she felt as though she had exited her body and let someone else take the reigns, "no – no. It's a double, we're adults, we can share the bed."

_We can share the bed. _

"You're sure?"

"Absolutely."

Such lies. She was not sure, she was certainly not absolutely sure. She should probably take herself outside and sleep in the back seat of the car, away from the very real risk she might embarrass herself.

He nodded, "good then." He pointed to the small bathroom, "I'll get ready in there."

The door hid him away and she undressed in double quick time and pulled on her new pajamas. Baby pink and oversized, she wondered if she'd ever dressed in a less sexual outfit, which was saying something. Not that it mattered.

She perched on the end of the bed, toothbrush in hand, like a some sort of sanitary sabre, as if she'd feel better about the situation if she could vanquish the taste of his cooking and the whiskey and the meal they'd shared at the Copper Kettle.

"All yours."

Their shoulders brushed as they swapped places. She kept her chin high. She would not look at his bare feet and the expanse of calf and knee and thigh. Apparently he had not bothered with pajamas. Just a white t-shirt and loose blue boxers. She did look at his arms. They would wrap nicely around her small shoulders.

She shut the bathroom door and shut her eyes to the blinding white light, resting her forehead against the cool tiles. Her breath was ragged – with what? Anticipation? She looked at herself in the mirror. The imperfections in her skin were stark, her eyes were shadowed, and an angry red splotch was making itself known on her chin. There was nothing to anticipate, she repeated this to herself – _nothing to anticipate_. They would go to sleep, in the same bed, as friends. She'd done it with people at University and often with Thomas after drunken nights in Soho. This was no different.

Except it was. It was Anthony. She wanted to cast back the covers and kiss his knees. Other places too, but the knees suddenly held a magnetic pull. The arms as well. And the thighs. The inside of the thighs_. _She rolled her eyes at the reflection, now flushed. This was ridiculous. They would just sleep.

She slathered toothpaste onto the brush and went at her smile with such aggression she thought she might draw blood. Would she be the first person to lose a tooth as a direct result of sexual frustration? Probably.

Anthony lay as though he hadn't a care in the world, as though it'd been him to suggest they share a bed like it was no big deal. Arm tucked behind his head, he stared at the ceiling with a small smile. Probably the after effects of the whiskey. Whiskey was disgusting but she'd kill for one right now, or five.

On her side of the bed he'd folded the corner of the duvet back, as if reminding her she was welcome there, expected, even.

She smoothed the front of her pink top and flicked the light switch. The artificial light from the car park outside streamed in through the thin blinds and she groped her way through the grey-black to the bed.

It was small. Tiny. Was it a single? It looked like a double in the light; the hotel said it was a double. But he took up so much of it. If she moved much further in - if she moved at all, she would touch him.

Her heart pounded and she inched herself nearer to the middle.

Suddenly there was warm skin at her toes and the bridge of her foot.

He let out a strangled cry and she recoiled, "Good God woman, your feet are cold!"

"Sorry."

There was silence for a moment, except the hum of the car park outside. Then his voice softly commanded, "Put your knees up."

"What?"

He tapped the side of her knee with the back of his hand, "up."

Such innocuous contact, and yet a wave of frisson erupted. Slowly she lifted her knees upwards and a small tent formed in the duvet in front of her. He shifted and Edith held her breath. The length of her feet was covered with the flesh of his thighs, she surmised it was the portion just above his knees. Firm but with a little bowing softness and covered in a thatch of fine hair.

The sensation of leg hair was suddenly erotic, the single most erotic thing she'd ever experienced. The heat spread down to her toes, up her legs, she flushed as she realised it had gone further than that, pooling between her legs with several heady thuds of desire. He was warm, but the mere fact of his skin on her skin would have caused the effect, even if he'd been as cold as her.

Clearing away the frog in her throat Edith barely recognised the cadence of her own voice – quiet, sultry, aroused - _could he hear it?_ "What are you doing?"

"Warming your feet up."

"You don't have to do that."

"It's my fault we got stuck here, too much chatting and drinking with Len, we'd have missed the accident if we'd left earlier. Besides they'll wake me in the night if they stay that cold."

They lay there in the dark. Anthony's thighs on her feet. It was the most intimate moment of her life, apparently intimacy could have precious little to do with sex. Edith wondered if he could hear her heart, which was threatening to beat it's way out of her chest. The still from his side of the bed suggested he'd already fallen asleep, completely unaffected by touching her.

She whispered, "Anthony?"

His voice was clear and quiet, "Edith."

Pursing her lips Edith wracked her brains for something to say, some reason she might have interrupted the unique peace found just before one falls asleep. The words tormented the tip of her tongue – _the sensation of your thighs resting on my feet is the single most sexually arousing touch I have ever experienced_. She swallowed them back, "thank you for today."

He laughed and the bed shifted slightly. She turned her head and the light caught his blue eyes as he looked at her through the grey, "which bit? The boring meeting with the law professor, getting us stuck in the snow or having to sleep on the most uncomfortable bed in history?"

"Those were the highlights, obviously." He laughed. The uncomfortable bed really had been a highlight but she'd already decided not to reveal herself, "but I meant the delicious picnic, making me feel better about the other paintings, sitting with me in the snow whilst I tried to sketch – the whole day, really."

There was a pause and his hand was on the flesh above her elbow, she had to fight the catch in her throat, "you're welcome. I had a fantastic day too."


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N Sorry about the delay in posting. This chapter just wouldn't co-operate, but in the end I decided to just let it go and bloody well post it. I know people wanted the night in the hotel bed to turn into rather more than sleep. Sorry to disappoint! _

_Some of this chapter might drift into M because of the language._

A morning erection is a young man's curse, or blessing, depending on the circumstances. If there is a warm and willing woman to oblige him it can be one of nature's delights.

Anthony had not been beset by a morning erection in as long as he could remember.

Not so this morning. He woke up with it tenting his boxers, as though he was some horny teenager fighting a losing battle with his base hormones. More worryingly, it pressed into Edith Crawley's small, but perfectly rounded, behind. His arm encircled her waist possessively and his hand rested on her stomach.

The pretence he'd manufactured to be able to touch her for some length of time - the need to warm up her cold feet - had long since fallen away. Their legs twinned together and her feet were jumbled with his, no longer blocks of ice, but entirely temperate. Her whole body was warm. Arousing too. A pleasing scent of lavender drifted from her hair to his nose.

The oversized pink pyjamas were an object of complete erotica to him now. The first nightclothes he seen her in. They pressed against his skin where he pressed against her. All her bodily promise hidden by a thin layer of cotton, alluding obliquely to the delights underneath. She could have been wearing a lacy corset and suspenders and he doubted it would have affected him to this degree.

That was a lie, but the contest was much, much closer than it should have been.

He prayed she wasn't awake. How terrible to put her in this position. Some randy old man taking liberties in the night and seeing fit to wrap himself around her as though he had a claim. And with all the evidence of his lascivious thoughts pooling in his groin and pressing into her back.

He was mortified. Mortified and turned on. He really was a teenager again.

He wanted to stay put and bury his head in her hair and his erection inside of her.

Obviously out of the question.

He took his hand from her body. Inch by inch, he worked his way out of the bed. He stood on tiptoes and arched his neck to try and see her face. Her breathing was deep and even. He sighed with relief when he saw that her eyes were shut.

The cold shower was a necessary relief.

He ran down to the _Costa_ at the service station and acquired two large coffees and Edith's favourites.

She was sitting up in bed when he returned, rubbing her eyes and yawning. She clapped a hand over her mouth as she caught sight of him and then thought better of it and attempted to smooth down her bed hair, "I was hoping I'd have time to get ready before you got back."

"No such luck I'm afraid. You look fine, by the way." He handed her the coffee and she scowled. He clambered onto the bed, her underneath the covers, him on top. He cloaked the almond croissant in a white paper napkin and gave it to her.

A murmur of pleasure erupted from her throat, "oh, you're too good." She cradled the coffee as though it was a goblet of holy wine and shut her eyes as she bit into the pastry. The crunch of its crisp edges filled the quiet bedroom, small flakes drifted, feather-like, onto the pale flesh beneath the notch at the centre of her throat. He tracked them with his eyes.

Suddenly everything was a bloody temptation.

He forced himself to examine the peeling wallpaper at the foot of the bed.

"How's the snow?"

"Still pretty thick on the ground, but we should be able to manage a slow journey back."

"Good then." She was quiet.

The coffees and croissants were finished. She swung her legs out of the bed and stretched her arms to the ceiling. A human feline in pink cotton fur. He admired the view.

She caught him in the act, "the pyjamas look ridiculous, I know."

"I think they're quiet jolly actually."

_Jolly?_ Had he ever said that word before in his entire life? He was utterly addled.

She looked down at herself, "I suppose they are rather fun."

He nearly commented that it would be rather fun to take them off, but he took a gulp of coffee instead.

She asked for twenty minutes to get ready, but she was dressed and at the door in fifteen.

On the way home Anthony tried to explain the nuances of the bad character applications he had to decide on Monday. Robust debate ensued about whether a Jury should ever know about a Defendant's convictions on previous matters. Anthony was pro, Edith was anti.

This dovetailed into debate on the question of the heart of it all: were the six defendants on trial guilty or not. He thought they obviously were and she was undecided. Well, she was undecided on everyone except Michael Gregson's client, who she was convinced had done it, which made Anthony smile like a fool.

Their conversation roamed from the trial, to plays and theatre, to his views on the latest book he was reading from Edith's list. She discovered he'd never seen _The West Wing_ and practically shrieked when he was completely ignorant about a woman called Erin Brockovich. A list of films and television programmes was to be drawn up and worked through along with the list of books.

Anthony's road was a graveyard when they returned. Not a soul in sight, just the murmur of nearby busy roads. They collected their things, handbag, canvass, picnic basket, box of uneaten Fitzbillies treats. He tried to collect his thoughts, to make sense of the gnawing sadness creeping up his throat. This was silly, he would see her tomorrow. Barely twelve waking hours to wait. They stood awkwardly next to the car. He looked at the ground and the sky and the buildings and then finally, with a nervous laugh and a shrug, at her.

She chewed the inside of her cheek and shook her head, "I'm going to head back then. I'll see you tomorrow."

"You're sure you'll be alright? I can drive you."

"No, goodness, no - through central London and then south of the river? It would take hours."

Hours in the car seemed like quite a pleasant prospect actually. The last hour had passed in the blink of an eye.

"Right."

She still wore his scarf; she put it on this morning with her coat and gloves and he said nothing. Pleased that some part of him, however ridiculous a notion this was, would return with her to Brixton and be in her flat amongst her things. He'd never ask for it back, of this he was certain.

"See you tomorrow then." She smiled weakly.

The day gaped in front of him. An abyss. He climbed the steps to his front door and fumbled for the key. He told himself he had work to do, concentrating on the six bad character skeleton arguments sitting in a file on his dining room table. At the back of his mind a voice whispered that they could wait. He'd heard a million of those arguments; he knew the law like the back of his hand. The feeling that glowed from within him when he was Edith, he didn't know that and he wanted to, he needed to.

He wrenched the key from the lock and spun around with frenetic haste, "Edith!"

The street was silent and empty. She must have walked fast to have already turned the corner. Disappointment curled in the pit of his stomach.

A small voice rose from the bottom of the steps, he looked down. She was swallowing a laugh, he could tell, she arched an eyebrow, "yes?"

"Oh – I –" Silly, how happy it made him to see her there, not walking away down his road, but on the pavement in front of him, instead.

"Shall we go to the National Portrait Gallery?"

"I've never been."

Her face was a pretty picture of taut horror, "well – that settles it then." She cleared her throat, "if you want to?"

"Yes. Absolutely."

She nodded her head down the road, "come on then."

He took the steps in just two long leaps, smiling – to borrow Len's phrase – like the proverbial cat who'd gotten the cream. Edith's hand hung down by her side and he had an overwhelming desire to take it in his own. He plunged his hand into his coat pocket instead and settled for the occasional brushing of her shoulder against his arm as they walked together.

"Remind me again why we're taking the bus?" She'd insisted that they walk away from the tube and head to the bank of bus stops on the main road.

"It's quicker than the tube to the gallery."

Skepticism laced his voice, "quicker than the tube."

"That's such a tourist mentality, to assume the tube is always quicker. It's often not. Honestly, how long have you lived in this city?"

He decided not to answer that particular question, the mental gymnastics required to calculate and then subtract the months he lived in Kent with Maud were too complicated, "Thatcher said that '_a man who, beyond the age of 30, finds himself on a bus can count himself as a failure_.'" He nodded at the scowling man in a suit standing next to them at the bus stop. He was balding, and certainly over thirty.

Edith gave an apologetic smile in the stranger's direction and then grimaced a reprimand at Anthony, shaking her head, "yes, well, I'm 25 and a woman."

"Ah, quite – just me that's the failure then." And old. Older. Much older.

The bus squeaked to a stop perilously close to where the stood at the edge of the pavement.

They climbed the stairs to the top deck. Anthony wracked his brain trying to remember when he last took the bus; it had been a long time. The time since he sat on the top floor was longer still.

The crush of bodies in front of them came to a stop and Edith turned and peered down at him from her elevated step, "Thatcher was wrong about plenty of things you know – poll tax, apartheid, women in the Cabinet – perhaps she was wrong about this."

They were on the move again and Edith turned, her petite backside was level with his face. There _were_ some benefits to this mode of transport. The seats were small and the length of his leg pressed against Edith's when they sat down. That settled it, Thatcher was an imbecile. He would take the bus more. If Edith was with him, he might suggest they always take it.

"I still cannot believe you've never been to the National Portrait Gallery."

"Can you not? You've masked your disbelief well by not looking utterly horrified." He laughed.

She punched his shoulder playfully, "alright, alright. Still, you claim to be educated - but there are such gaps."

Anthony enumerated them on his fingers, "literature, art, television, film, music." He peered out of the misty window at Nelson's column in the distance, "but, I have written three books on hearsay, one on fraud and numerous scholarly articles on the vacation of guilty pleas. Some say I am one of the finest legal minds of my generation."

"I am firmly of the view that no one should be able to claim a fine legal mind if they haven't seen _Erin Brockovich_."

"Well, we can remedy that one night this week after court?" She nodded, "And then my education will be complete."

She looked resolutely out of the window, "do you want it to be?"

It was difficult having a conversation with the side of her neck, not least because the beauty spots flashed, beckoning him to taste her skin. He went to answer, but she continued instead.

"I know I mock you for your lack of popular culture knowledge and I make bossy recommendations, but you don't have to do what I ask. I'll stop interfering if you want me to, I'll just paint the picture. We don't have to do any of this. You can just go back to life as it was, trials and scholarly articles"

A barrister knows a prepared speech, a Judge even more so. Perhaps she'd become bored with him.

He wasn't sure how to strike the right note. Surely it lay somewhere between the truth, which was that he was having the best time of is life and he was afraid of the day the painting was finished, and a lie of indifference, that they needn't do these lessons if she didn't want to.

He shrugged, "I'm enjoying myself." Then he feigned nonchalance, looking at his nails, "do _you_ want to stop?"

A brief hand on his knee and a resigned sigh, "no. I should, but no, I don't."

They sat largely in silence for the rest of the journey. Those words rolled around his mind like marbles in an empty room. _I should_.

The National Portrait Gallery was tucked behind the National Gallery. If you didn't know it was there you were liable to miss it altogether, like the poor spinster sister, kept out of sight and out of mind. Anthony wondered if that's why Edith loved it so much (when asked she'd been unable to accurately count how many times she'd been) she somehow felt an affinity with what was obviously the Middle Sister of London's galleries.

She ushered him straight downstairs to the nineteenth century and they walked through room after room of statesmen and the occasional stateswoman. He was paying attention but it was difficult to concentrate on the pictures of dead men when Edith was in such close proximity.

He was supposed to be considering an intricate portrait of Queen Victoria, her garments covered in gilt and a luxurious bolt of deep red silk wrapped around a stone lion lying in front of her. Edith had told him to think about what he wanted in the foreground and background of his picture. He was trying to do as she asked but his eyes kept sliding away from the Queen and over to her. She was considering Lord Melbourne a couple of portraits over. She'd declared Melbourne 'devilishly handsome' and Anthony found himself ridiculously envious of a long-gone, nineteenth century Prime Minister.

He had the sudden urge to throw her over his shoulder and whisk them back to Notting Hill. He'd make it so that any thoughts of other men, alive or dead, were banished from her mind. _Far_ from her mind, leaving only him.

He muttered an expletive and turned away from her to look at the next portrait in the row. He clattered straight into a small woman standing beside him, "I am sorry, I –"

Anthony felt as though he'd been caught truanting school by his Mother. He'd walked headlong into Mrs Hughes, she was looking up at him with slightly narrowed eyes and an arched eyebrow, "Your Honour, what a surprise!" She smiled and squeezed his arm, "I can't believe you're out of the house on a Sunday and with a legal argument to decide tomorrow."

"I, yes, well –"

"Mrs Hughes, hello."

There was a beat of silence, "Edith, dear, how nice to see you."

Mrs Hughes caught his eye and conveyed a world of meaning in a look and then he felt like he'd been caught with a girl by his Mother, a thoroughly inappropriate girl.

"Weren't the two of you in Cambridge yesterday?"

Edith revealed all his secrets, because, of course, to her the whole thing was innocent, "yes, but we ended up staying over after the snow hit and then we decided to spend Sunday here."

"How lovely." Another knowing look. Mrs Hughes could convey more information than anyone he knew without employing any words at all.

Then it was Anthony's turn to convey a wealth of meaning in a look, because from behind her Charlie Carson appeared. He wore corduroy trousers, a blue shirt and a v-neck pullover. In all the time Anthony had known him he'd either worn judicial robes or a suit. The revelation that he owned a casual wardrobe was a startling one.

Carson was too absorbed with looking at Mrs Hughes to notice that there were other people present. Anthony recognised the look, it was the look that had been on his own face all day, the look he couldn't help whenever he glanced at Edith.

He put his hand on her shoulder, "I have the tickets."

Elsie Hughes had been his Clerk for the better part of a decade, he'd never seen her blush, "oh, good." She cleared her throat and raised her eyebrows to her hairline, eyes wide, "look who I met." Her head jerked sharply in their direction.

Carson was a picture of embarrassed solemnity, he snatched his hand away, holding his arms firmly by his side like a Sergeant Major, "Strallan." He nodded seriously, "Ms Crawley."

Allowing himself a sidelong glance down to Edith, she caught his eye and bit the inside of her cheek, pursing her lips. Clearing her throat she asked, "what do you have tickets to?"

"The Virginia Woolf exhibition."

"I went last month, it's great."

They were a quartet of silence. Nervous glances and half smiles passed around the group.

Mrs Hughes's brisk Scottish tones took charge, as ever, "we should go. Enjoy the rest of your day you two."

Carson backed away as though retreating from the enemy. Anthony half expected him to salute. Casual clothes he could do, casual meetings were apparently a bridge too far.

"What was that?"

Edith laughed and shook her head, "Your talk worked."

"What do you mean?"

At the end of the gallery, between the steady movement of people coming back and forth, from picture to picture, Anthony saw Carson take hold of Mrs Hughes's hand. As they turned the corner to leave the nineteenth century section he bent down and kissed her cheek.

"_That_, Anthony, was a date."

He watched them disappear from view and stared at the empty space they'd occupied. Carson loved Mrs Hughes and he was finally taking action. A lump rose, unbidden in Anthony's throat.

He should kiss Edith.

But when he turned, he found she was gone, examining Disraeli and Gladstone at the other end of the room.


End file.
